TH€ 

UNIY6RS1TY  Of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 


OEMS 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN,' 
ETC. 


r 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR  AND   FIELDS, 
i  866. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  £  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


TO 
HENRY   BLACKETT,  ESQ., 

A    TOKEN    OF     RESPECT    AND    ESTEEM     FROM 

AUTHOR  TO  PUBLISHER. 


PREFACE. 

;|ANY  of  these  Poems,  extending  over 
a  period  of  several  years,  have  ap- 
peared anonymously  in  Chambers's 
Journal  and  elsewhere.  The  frequent  reprint- 
ing of  them,  here  and  in  America,  has  induced 
the  author  to  collect,  select,  revise,  and  claim 
her  errant  children. 

Whether  they  were  worth  collecting,  and  are 
really  "  Poems,"  public  opinion  must  decide. 

The  present  edition  in  the  "  Blue  and  Gold  " 
series  contains  many  pieces  not  heretofore  col- 
lected. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

PHILIP  my  King 1 

Thoughts  in  a  Wheat-Field      ...  3 

Immutable 5 

Four  Years        • 7 

The  Dead  Czar 9 

The  Wind  at  Night 11 

A  Fable    .        .        .        . 14 

Labor  is  Prayer 16 

A  Silly  Song      .                18 

In  Memoriam 19 

An  Honest  Valentine         .        .        . S      .        .        .        .20 

Looking  Death  in  the  Face 24 

By  the  Alma  River 28 

RothesayBay        ........  30 

Living  :  after  a  Death 32 

In  our  Boat    . 34 

The  River  Shore 35 

A  Flower  of  a  Day 36 

The  Night  before  the  Mowing 33 

Passion  Past 39 

October 41 

Moon-Struck.    A  Fantasy    .        .               .        .       .  42 
A  Stream's  Singing  .        .       .        ...       .        .46 


viii  CONTENTS. 

A  Rejected  Lover 48 

A  Living  Picture    ........  49 

Leonora 52 

Plighted 55 

Mortality 56 

Life  Returning.    After  War-Time 58 

My  Friend 59 

A  Valentine 61 

Grace  of  Clydeside 64 

To  a  Beautiful  Woman 65 

Mary's  Wedding 67 

Between  Two  Worlds       ....        ...  69 

Cousin  Robert 72 

At  Last .75 

The  Aurora  on  the  Clyde 76 

An  Aurora  Borealis.    Rosh'n  Castle       ....  79 

At  the  Linn-Side.    Roslin 80 

A  Hymn  for  Christmas  Morning 82 

A  Psalm  for  New  Year's  Eve 84 

Faithful  in  Vanity-Fair.    I.  and  H 86 

Her  Likeness 89 

Only  a  Dream 90 

To  my  Godchild  Alice 92 

SONNETS. 

Resigning 94 

Saint  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia.    I.  and  n.     .  95 

A  Marriage-Table 97 

Michael  the  Archangel.    I.  and  n 98 

Beatrice  to  Dante 100 

Dante  to  Beatrice 101 


CONTENTS.  ix 

A  Question.    I.  and  II 102 

Angel  Faces.    I.  and  II 104 

Sunday  Morning  Bells 106 

Cceur  de  Lion.    I.  and  n 107 

Guns  of  Peace 109 

David's  Child 110 

A  Word  in  Season Ill 

The  Path  through  the  Snow 112 

The  Path  through  the  Corn 113 

The  Good  of  it.    A  Cynic's  Sctag 115 

Mine 117 

A  Ghost  at  the  Dancing 118 

My  Christian  Name 120 

A  Dead  Baby 122 

For  Music 124 

The  Canary  in  his  Cage 125 

Constancy  in  Inconstancy 127 

Buried  To-day 130 

The  Mill 131 

North  Wind 132 

Now  and  Afterwards 133 

A  Sketch 134 

The  Unknown  Country 136 

A  Child's  Smile 137 

Violets 139 

Edenland 141 

The  House  of  Clay 142 

Winter  Moonlight 143 

The  Planting 145 

Sitting  on  the  Shore 148 


x  CONTENTS. 

Eudoxia.    First  Picture 149 

Eudoxia.    Second  Picture 151 

Eudoxia.    Third  Picture 153 

Benedetta  Miuelli.    The  Novice 155 

Benedetta  Minelli.    The  Sister  of  Mercy     .       .        .  [157 

A  Dream  of  Death 160 

A  Dream  of  Resurrection 162 

On  the  Cliff-Top 164 

An  Evening  Guest 165 

After  Sunset 167 

The  Garden-Chair.    Two  Portraits     ....  169 

An  Old  Idea 170 

Parables 171 

Lettice 173 

A  Spirit  Present 174 

A  Winter  Walk 176 

"  Will  sail  To-morrow  " 178 

At  Even-tide 180 

A  Dead  Sea-Gull.    Near  Liverpool     ....  181 

Looking  East.    In  January,  1858 183 

Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away 185 

Too  Late 186 

Lost  in  the  Mist 187 

Semper  Fidelis         .        . 191 

One  Summer  Morning . 193 

My  Love  Annie        .        .        .        .  .        .        .194 

Summer  Gone 195 

The  Voice  calling 198 

The  Wren's  Nest 200 

A  Christmas  Carol .  202 

The  Mother's  Visits.    From  the  French     ...  203 


CONTENTS.  xi 

A  German  Student's  Funeral  Hymn        ....  204 

"Westward  ho ! 205 

POEMS   SINCE    1860. 

Our  Father's  Business 209 

An  Autumn  Psalm  for  1860 212 

In  the  June  Twilight 214 

A  Man's  Wooing 216 

The  Cathedral  Tombs 221 

When  Green  Leaves  come  again 223 

The  First  Waits 225 

Day  by  Day 226 

Only  a  Woman .        .228 

A  "  Mercenary  "  Marriage 232 

Over  the  Hillside 234 

The  Unfinished  Book 236 

Twilight  in  the  North 238 

Cathair  Fhargus 240 

A  True  Hero 244 

At  the  Seaside     .                245 

Fishermen  — not  of  Galilee 248 

The  Golden  Island :  Arran  from  Ayr  ....  249 

Fallen  in  the  Night  ! 251 

A  Lancashire  Doxology 253 

Year  after  Year 255 

"  Until  her  Death " 256 

The  Lost  Piece  of  Silver 258 

Outward  Bound 259 


POEMS. 


PHILIP  MY  KING. 

"  Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty." 

OOK  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip  my  king, 
Bound  whom  the  enshadowing  purple 

lies 

Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities : 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 
With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden ; 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 
Till  thou  shalt  find  a  queen-handmaiden, 
Philip  my  king. 

O  the  day  when  thou  goest  a  wooing, 

Philip  my  king ! 

When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing 


2  PHILIP  MY  KING. 

Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 
Sittest  love-glorified.     Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair, 
For  we  that  love,  ah !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip  my  king. 

Up  from  thy  sweet  mouth,  —  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip  my  king ! 

The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  heaven-chosen  amongst  his  peers : 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller  and  fairer 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years  ;  — 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 

Philip  my  king. 

—  A  wreath  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One  day, 

Philip  my  king, 

Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny  and  cruel  and  cold  and  gray : 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without, 
Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.   But  march  on,  glorious, 
Martyr,  yet  monarch  :  till  angels  shout 
As  thou  sit'st  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 

"  Philip  the  king ! " 


THOUGHTS  IN  A    WHEAT-FIELD. 


THOUGHTS   IN  A   WHEAT-FIELD. 

"The  harvest  is  the  end  of  the  world,  and  the  reapers  are  the 
angels." 

"|N  his  wide  fields  walks  the  Master, 
In  his  fair  fields,  ripe  for  harvest, 
Where  the  evening  sun  shines  slant-wise 
On  the  rich  ears  heavy  bending ; 
Saith  the  Master :  "  It  is  time." 
Though  no  leaf  shows  brown  decadence, 
And  September's  nightly  frost-bite 
Only  reddens  the  horizon, 
"  It  is  full  time,"  saith  the  Master, 
The  wise  Master,  "It  is  time." 

Lo,  he  looks.     That  look  compelling 
Brings  his  laborers  to  the  harvest ; 
Quick  they  gather,  as  in  autumn 
Passage-birds  in  cloudy  eddies 

Drop  upon  the  seaside  fields  ; 
White  wings  have  they,  and  white  raiment, 
White  feet  shod  with  swift  obedience, 
Each  lays  down  his  golden  palm-branch, 
And  uprears  his  sickle  shining, 

"  Speak,  O  Master,  —  is  it  time  ?  " 


THOUGHTS  IN  A    WHEAT-FIELD. 

O'er  the  field  the  servants  hasten, 
Where  the  full-stored  ears  droop  downwards, 
Humble  with  their  weight  of  harvest : 
Where  the  empty  ears  wave  upward, 

And  the  gay  tares  flaunt  in  rows  : 
But  the  sickles,  the  sharp  sickles, 
Flash  new  dawn  at  their  appearing, 
Songs  are  heard  in  earth  and  heaven, 
For  the  reapers  are  the  angels, 

And  it  is  the  harvest  time. 

O  Great  Master,  are  thy  footsteps 
Even  now  upon  the  mountains  ? 
Art  thou  walking  in  thy  wheat-field  ? 
Are  the  snowy-winged  reapers 

Gathering  in  the  silent  air  ? 
Are  thy  signs  abroad,  the  glowing 
Of  the  distant  sky,  blood-reddened,  — - 
And  the  near  fields  trodden,  blighted, 
Choked  by  gaudy  tares  triumphant, — 

Sure,  it  must  be  harvest  time  ? 

Who  shall  know  the  Master's  coming  ? 
Whether  it  be  at  dawn  or  sunset, 
When  night  dews  weigh  down  the  wheat-ears, 
Or  while  noon  rides  high  in  heaven, 
Sleeping  lies  the  yellow  field  ? 
Only,  may  thy  voice,  Good  Master, 


IMMUTABLE. 

Peal  above  the  reapers'  chorus, 
And  dull  sound  of  sheaves  slow  falling,  — 
"  Gather  all  into  My  garner, 
Eor  it  is  My  harvest  time." 


IMMUTABLE. 

"  With  whom  is  no  variableness,  neither  shadow  of  turning." 

AUTUMN  to  winter,  winter  into  spring, 
Spring  into  summer,  summer  into  fall, — 
So  rolls  the  changing  year,  and  so  we 

change ; 

Motion  so  swift,  we  know  not  that  we  move. 
Till  at  the  gate  of  some  memorial  hour 
AYe  pause  —  look  in  its  sepulchre  to  find 
The  cast-off  shape  that  years  since  we  called  "  I "  — 
And  start,  amazed.     Yet  on  !  we  may  not  stay 
To  weep  or  laugh.     All  which  is  past,  is  past 
Even  while  we  gaze  the  simulated  form 
Drops  into  dust,  like  many-centuricd  corpse 
At  opening  of  a  tomb. 

Alack,  this  world 

Is  full  of  change,  change,  change,  —  nothing  but 
change ! 


6  IMMUTABLE. 

Is  there  not  one  straw  in  life's  whirling  flood 
To  hold  by,  as  the  torrent  sweeps  us  down, 
Us,  scattered  leaves  ;  eddied  and  broken  ;  torn 
Roughly  asunder;  or  in  smooth  mid-stream 
Divided  each  from  other  without  pain  ; 
Collected  in  what  looks  like  union, 
Yet  is  but  stagnant  chance,  —  stopping  to  rot 
By  the  same  pebble  till  the  tide  shall  turn ; 
Then  on,  to  find  no  shelter  and  no  rest, 
Forever  rootless  and  forever  lone. 
O  God,  we  are  but  leaves  upon  Thy  stream, 
Clouds  on  Thy  sky.     We  do  but  move  across 
The  silent  breast  of  Thine  infinitude 
Which  bears  us  all.     We  pour  out  day  by  day 
Our  long,  brief  moan  of  mutability 
To  Thine  immutable  —  and  cease. 

Yet  still 

Our  change  yearns  after  Thine  unchangedness ; 
Our  mortal  craves  Thine  immortality; 
Our  manifold  and  multiform  and  weak 
Imperfectness,  requires  the  perfect  ONE. 
For  Thou  art  ONE,  and  we  are  all  of  Thee ; 
Dropped  from  Thy  bosom,  as  Thy  sky  drops  down 
Its  morning  dews,  which  glitter  for  a  space, 
Uncertain  whence  they  fell,  or  whither  tend, 
Till  the  great  Sun  arising  on  his  fields 
Upcalls  them  all,  and  they  rejoicing  go. 


FOUR    YEARS.  7 

So,  with  like  joy,  O  Light  Eterne,  we  spring 
Thee- ward,  and  leave  the  pleasant  fields  of  earth, 
Forgetting  equally  its  blossomed  green 
And  its  dry  dusty  paths  which  drank  us  up 
Remorseless,  —  we,  poor  humble  drops  of  dew, 
That  only  wished  to  freshen  a  flower's  breast, 
And  be  exhaled  to  heaven. 

O  Thou  supreme 

All-satisfying  and  immutable  One, 
It  is  enough  to  be  absorbed  in  Thee 
And  vanish,  —  though  't  were  only  to  a  voice 
That  through  all  ages  with  perpetual  joy 
Goes  evermore  loud  crying,  "  God !  God !  God ! " 


FOUR  YEARS. 

T  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was 

down, 
Said  I,  mournfully,  —  My  life  is  at  its 

prime, 

Yet  bare  lie  my  meadows,  shorn  before  the  time, 
In  my  scorched  woodlands  the  leaves  are  turning 

brown. 
It  is  the  hot  midsummer,  and  the  hay  is  down. 


8  FOUR    YEARS. 

At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Stood  she  by  the  streamlet,  young  and  very  fair, 
With  the  first  white  bindweed  twisted  in  her  hair,  — 
Hair  that  drooped  like  birch-boughs,  —  all  in  her 

simple  gown. 
For  it  was  midsummer,  —  and  the  hay  was  down. 

At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Crept  she,  a  willing  bride,  close  into  my  breast : 
Low  piled  the  thunder-clouds  had  drifted  to  the 

west,  — 
Red-eyed  out  glared  the  sun,  like  knight  from 

leaguered  town, 
That  eve  in  high  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was 

down. 

It  is  midsummer,  —  all  the  hay  is  down ; 

Close  to  her  bosom  press  I  dying  eyes, 

Praying,  "  God  shield  thee  till  we  meet  in  Para- 
dise!" 

Bless  her  in  Love's  name  who  was  my  brief  life's 
crown,  — 

And  I  go  at  midsummer,  when  the  hay  is  down. 


THE  DEAD  CZAR. 


THE  DEAD  CZAR. 

AY  him  beneath  his  snows, 
The  great  Norse  giant  who  in  these  last 

days 

Troubled  the  nations.    Gather  decently 
The  imperial  robes  about  him.     'T  is  but  man,  — 
This  demi-god.     Or  rather  it  was  man, 
And  is — a  little  dust,  that  will  corrupt 
As  fast  as  any  nameless  dust  which  sleeps 
'Neath  Alma's  grass  or  Balaklava's  vines. 

No  vineyard  grave  for  him.     No  quiet  tomb 
By  river  margin,  where  across  the  seas 
Children's  fond  thoughts  and  women's  memories 

come 

Like  angels,  to  sit  by  the  sepulchre, 
Saying :  "  All  these  were  men  who  knew  to  count, 
Front-faced,  the  cost  of  honor,  nor  did  shrink 
From  its  full  payment :  coming  here  to  die, 
They  died  —  like  men." 

But  this  man  ?     Ah !  for  him 
Funereal  state,  and  ceremonial  grand, 
The  stone-engraved  sarcophagus,  and  then 
Oblivion. 


io  THE  DEAD  CZAR. 

Nay,  oblivion  were  as  bliss 

To  that  fierce  howl  which  rolls  from  land  to  land 
Exulting,  —  "Art  thou  fallen,  Lucifer, 
Son  of  the  morning'?  "  or  condemning,  —  "Thus 
Perish  the  wicked  !  "  or  blaspheming,  —  "  Hero 
Lies  our  Belshazzar,  our  Sennacherib, 
Our  Pharaoh, — he  whose  heart  God  hardened, 
So  that  he  would  not  let  the  people  go." 

Self-glorifying  sinners !     Why,  this  man 

Was  but  like  other  men  :  —  you,  Levite  small, 

Who  shut  your  saintly  ears,  and  prate  of  hell 

And  heretics,  because  outside  church-doors, 

Your  church-doors,  congregations  poor  and  small 

Praise  Heaven  in  their  own  way ;  —  you,  autocrat 

Of  all  the  hamlets,  who  add  field  to  field 

And  house  to  house,  whose  slavish  children  cower 

Before  your  tyrant  footstep ;  —  you,  foul-tongued 

Fanatic  or  ambitious  egotist, 

Who  thinks  God  stoops  from  His  high  majesty 

To  lay  His  finger  on  your  puny  head, 

And  crown  it,  —  that  you  henceforth  may  parade 

Your    maggotship    throughout    the    wondering 

world,  — 
"  I  am  the  Lord's  anointed  ! " 

Fools  and  blind ! 
This  Czar,  this  emperor,  this  disthroned  corpse, 


THE    WIND  AT  NIGHT.  n 

Lying  so  straightly  in  an  icy  calm 
Grander  than  sovereignty,  was  but  as  ye,  — 
No  better  and  no  worse ;  —  Heaven  mend  us  all ! 

Carry  him  forth  and  bury  him.     Death's  peace 
Best  on  his  memory  !     Mercy  by  his  bier 
Sits  silent,  or  says  only  these  few  words,  — 
"  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  Amongst  ye  all 
Cast  the  first  stone." 


THE   WIND   AT  NIGHT. 

SUDDEN  blast,  that  through  this  si- 
lence black 

Sweeps  past  my  windows, 
Coming  and  going  with  invisible  track 
As  death  or  sin  does,  — 

Why  scare  me,  lying  sick,  and,  save  thine  own, 

Hearing  no  voices  ? 
Why  mingle  with  a  helpless  human  moan 

Thy  mad  rejoices  ? 

Why  not  come  gently,  as  good  angels  come 
To  souls  departing, 


12  TEE   WIND  AT  NIGHT. 

Floating  among  the  shadows  of  the  room 
With  eyes  light-darting, 

Bringing  faint  airs  of  balm  that  seem  to  rouse 

Thoughts  of  a  Far  Land, 
Then  binding  softly  upon  weary  brows 

Death's  poppy-garland  ? 

O  fearful  blast,  I  shudder  at  thy  sound, 

Like  heathen  mortal 
Who  saw  the  Three  that  mark  life's  doomed  bound 

Sit  at  his  portal. 

Thou  mightst  be  laden  with  sad,  shrieking  souls, 

Carried  unwilling 

From  their  known  earth  to  the  unknown  stream 
that  rolls 

All  anguish  stilling. 

Fierce  wind,  will  the  Death-angel  come  like  thcc, 

Soon,  soon  to  bear  me 
—  WJiither  ?  what  mysteries  may  unfold  to  me, 

What  terrors  scare  me  ? 

Shall  I  go  wand'ring  on  through  empty  space 

As  on  earth,  lonely  ? 
Or  seek  through  myriad  spirit-ranks  one  face, 

And  miss  that  only  ? 


THE   WIND  AT  NIGHT.  13 

Shall  I  not  then  drop  down  from  sphere  to  sphere 

Palsied  and  aimless  ? 
Or  will  my  being  change  so,  that  both  fear 

And  grief  die  nameless  ? 

Eather  I  pray  Him  who  Himself  is  Love, 

Out  of  whose  essence 
We  all  do  spring,  and  towards  Him  tending,  move 

Back  to  His  presence, 

That  even  His  brightness  may  not  quite  efface 

The  soul's  earth-features, 
That  the  dear  human  likeness  each  may  trace 

Glorified  creatures ; 

That  we  may  not  cease  loving,  only  taught 

Holier  desiring ; 

More  faith,  more  patience;    with  more  wisdom 
fraught, 

Higher  aspiring. 

That  we  may  do  all  work  we  left  undone 

Here  —  though  unmeetness ; 
From  height  to  height  celestial  passing  on 

Towards  full  completeness. 

Then,  strong  Azrael,  be  thy  supreme  call 
Soft  as  spring-breezes, 


i4  A  FABLE. 

Or  like  this  blast,  whose  loud  fiend-festival 
My  heart's  blood  freezes, 

I  will  not  fear  thee.     If  thou  safely  keep 

My  soul,  God's  giving, 
And  my  soul's  soul,  I,  wakening  from  death-sleep, 

Shall  first  know  living. 


A  FABLE. 

jILENT  and  sunny  was  the  way 

Where  Youth  and  I  danced  on  t( 

gether : 
So  winding  and  embowered  o'er, 


We  could  not  see  one  rood  before. 
Nevertheless  all  merrily 
We  bounded  onward,  Youth  and  I, 
Leashed  closely  in  a  silken  tether  : 

(Well-a-day,  well-a-day !) 
Ah  Youth,  ah  Youth,  but  I  would  fain 
See  thy  sweet  foolish  face  again ! 

It  came  to  pass,  one  morn  of  May, 

All  in  a  swoon  of  golden  weather, 
That  I  through  green  leaves  fluttering 
Saw  Joy  uprise  on  Psyche  wing  : 


A  FABLE.  15 

Eagerly,  too  eagerly 
We  followed  after,  —  Youth  and  I,  — 
Till  suddenly  he  slipped  the  tether  : 

(Well-a-day,  well-a-day!) 

"  Where  art  thou,  Youth  ?  "  I  cried.     In  vain  ; 
He  never  more  came  back  again. 

Yet  onward  through  the  devious  way 

In  rain  or  shine,  I  recked  not  whether, 

Like  many  another  maddened  boy 

I  tracked  my  Psyche- winged  Joy  ; 

Till,  curving  round  the  bowery  lane, 

Lo,  —  in  the  pathway  stood  pale  Pain, 
And  we  met  face  to  face  together : 
(Well-a-day,  well-a-day!) 

"  Whence  comest  thou  ?  "  —  and  I  writhed  in  vain  — 

"  Unloose  thy  cruel  grasp,  0  Pain  ! " 

But  he  would  not.     Since,  day  by  day 
He  has  ta'en  up  Youth's  silken  tether 

And  changed  it  into  iron  bands. 

So  through  rich  vales  and  barren  lands 

Solemnly,  all  solemnly, 

March  we  united,  he  and  I ; 

And  we  have  grown  such  friends  together 
(Well-a-day,  well-a-day !) 

I  and  this  my  brother  Pain, 

I  think  we  "11  never  part  again. 


1 6  LABOR  IS  PRAYER. 


LABOE  IS   PRAYER. 

^ABORARE  est  orare : 

We,  black-visaged  sons  of  toil, 
From  the  coal-mine  and  the  anvil 
And  the  delving  of  the  soil,  — 
From  the  loom,  the  wharf,  the  warehouse, 

And  the  ever-whirling  mill, 
Out  of  grim  and  hungry  silence 

Raise  a  weak  voice  small  and  shrill ;  — 
Laborare  est  orare : 

Man,  dost  hear  us  ?     God,  He  will. 

We  who  just  can  keep  from  starving 

Sickly  wives,  — not  always  mild  : 
Trying  not  to  curse  Heaven's  bounty 

When  it  sends  another  child,  — 
We  who,  worn-out,  doze  on  Sundays 

O'er  the  Book  we  strive  to  read, 
Cannot  understand  the  parson 

Or  the  catechism  and  creed. 
Laborare  est  orare :  — 

Then,  good  sooth,  we  pray  indeed. 

We,  poor  women,  feeble-natured, 
Large  of  heart,  in  wisdom  small, 


LABOR  IS  PRAYER.  17 

Who  the  world's  incessant  battle 

Cannot  understand  at  all, 
All  the  mysteries  of  the  churches, 

All  the  troubles  of  the  state,  — 
Whom  child-smiles  teach  "  God  is  loving," 

And  child-coffins,  "  God  is  great "  : 
Laborare  est  orare :  — 

We  too  at  His  footstool  wait. 

Laborare  est  orare ; 

Hear  it,  ye  of  spirit  poor, 
Who  sit  crouching  at  the  threshold 

While  your  brethren  force  the  door ; 
Ye  whose  ignorance  stands  wringing 

Rough  hands,  seamed  with  toil,  nor  dares 
Lift  so  much  as  eyes  to  heaven,  — 

Lo  !  all  life  this  truth  declares, 
Laborare  est  orare; 

And  the  whole  earth  rings  with  prayers. 


1 8  A  SILLY  SONG. 


A   SILLY  SONG. 

HEART,  my  heart!"   she  said,  and 

heard 

His  mate  the  blackbird  calling, 
While  through  the  sheen  of  the  garden 

green 

May  rain  was  softly  falling,  — 
Aye  softly,  softly  falling. 

The  buttercups  across  the  field 

Made  sunshine  rifts  of  splendor : 

The  round  snow-bud  of  the  thorn  in  the  wood 
Peeped  through  its  leafage  tender, 
As  the  rain  came  softly  falling. 

"  0  heart,  my  heart ! "  she  said  and  smiled, 
"  There  's  not  a  tree  of  the  valley, 

Or  a  leaf  I  wis  which  the  rain's  soft  kiss 
Freshens  in  yonder  alley, 
Where  the  drops  keep  ever  falling,  — 

"  There  's  not  a  foolish  flower  i'  the  grass, 
Or  bird  through  the  woodland  calling, 

So  glad  again  of  the  coming  of  rain 
As  I  of  these  tears  now  falling,  — 
These  happy  tears  down  falling." 


IN  MEMORIAM.  I9 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

Obiit  1854. 

HEAVEN  rest  thee ! 

We  shall  go  about  to-day 
In  our  festal  garlands  gay ; 
Whatsoever  robes  we  wear 
Not  a  trace  of  black  be  there. 
Well,  what  matters  ?  none  is  seen 
On  thy  daisy  covering  green, 
Or  thy  pure  white  pillow,  hid 
Underneath  a  coffin  lid. 
Heaven  rest  thee ! 

Heaven  take  thee  !  — 
Ay,  heaven  only.     Sleeps  beneath 
One  who  died  a  virgin  death : 
Died  so  slowly,  day  by  day, 
That  it  scarcely  seemed  decay, 
Till  this  lonely  churchyard  kind 
Opened,  —  and  we  left  behind 
Nothing  but  a  little  dust ;  — 
Heaven  is  pitiful  and  just : 
Heaven  take  thee ! 


AN  HONEST   VALENTINE. 

Heaven  keep  thee : 
Nevermore  above  the  ground 
Be  one  relic  of  thee  found  : 
Lay  the  turf  so  smooth,  we  crave, 
None  would  guess  it  was  a  grave, 
Save  for  grass  that  greener  grows, 
Or  for  wind  that  gentlicr  blows 
All  the  earth  o'er,  from  this  spot 
Where  thou  wert  —  and  thou  art  not. 
Heaven  keep  thee ! 


AN  HONEST   VALENTINE. 

Returned  from  the  Dead-Letter  Office. 

HANK  ye  for  your  kindness, 

Lady  fair  and  wise, 
Though  love  's  famed  for  blindness, 

Lovers  —  hem  !  for  lies. 
Courtship  Js  mighty  pretty, 

Wedlock  a  sweet  sight ;  — 
Should  I  (from  the  city, 

A  plain  man,  Miss  — )  write, 
Ere  we  spouse-and-wive  it, 
Just  one  honest  line, 


AN  HONEST   VALENTINE. 

Could  you  e'er  forgive  it, 
Pretty  Valentine  ? 

Honey-moon  quite  over, 

If  I  less  should  scan 
You  with  eye  of  lover 

Than  of  mortal  man  ? 
Seeing  my  fair  charmer 

Curl  hair  spire  on  spire, 
All  in  paper  armor, 

By  the  parlor  fire ; 
Gown  that  wants  a  stitch  in 

Hid  by  apron  fine, 
Scolding  in  her  kitchen,  — 

0  fie,  Valentine ! 

Should  I  come  home  surly 

Vexed  with  fortune's  frown, 
Find  a  hurly-burly, 

House  turned  upside  down, 
Servants  all  a-snarl,  or 

Cleaning  steps  or  stair : 
Breakfast  still  in  parlor, 

Dinner  —  anywhere : 
Shall  I  to  cold  bacon 

Meekly  fall  and  dine  ? 
No,  —  or  I  'm  mistaken 

Much,  my  Valentine. 


AN  HONEST  VALENTINE. 

What  if  we  should  quarrel  ? 

—  Bless  you,  all  folks  do  :  — 
Will  you  take  the  war  ill 

Yet  half  like  it  too  ? 
When  I  storm  and  jangle, 

Obstinate,  absurd, 
Will  you  sit  and  wrangle 

Just  for  the  last  word,  — 
Or,  while  poor  Love,  crying, 

Upon  tiptoe  stands, 
Ready  plumed  for  flying,  — 

Will  you  smile,  shake  hands, 
And  the  truth  beholding, 

With  a  kiss  divine 
Stop  my  rough  mouth's  scolding  ?  - 

Bless  you,  Valentine ! 


If,  should  times  grow  harder, 

We  have  lack  of  pelf, 
Little  in  the  larder, 

Less  upon  the  shelf; 
Will  you,  never  tearful, 

Make  your  old  gowns  do, 
Mend  my  stockings,  cheerful, 

And  pay  visits  few  ? 
Crave  nor  gift  nor  donor, 

Old  days  ne'er  regret, 


'AN  HONEST   VALENTINE.  23 

Seek  no  friend  save  Honor, 

Dread  no  foe  but  Debt ; 
Meet  ill-fortune  steady, 

Hand  to  hand  with  mine, 
Like  a  gallant  lady,  — 

Will  you,  Valentine  ? 

Then,  whatever  weather 

Come,  or  shine,  or  shade, 
We  '11  set  out  together, 

Not  a  whit  afraid. 
Age  is  ne'er  alarming,  — 

I  shall  find,  I  ween, 
You  at  sixty  charming 

As  at  sweet  sixteen  : 
Let 's  pray,  nothing  loath,  dear, 

That  our  funeral  may 
Make  one  date  serve  both,  dear, 

As  our  marriage  day. 
Then,  come  joy  or  sorrow, 

Thou  art  mine,  —  I  thine. 
So  we  '11  wed  to-morrow, 

Dearest  Valentine. 


24     LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 

j|Y,  in  thy  face,  old  fellow !    Now 's  the 

time. 
The  Black  Sea  wind  flaps  my  tent-roof, 

nor  wakes 

These  lads  of  mine,  who  take  of  sleep  their  fill, 
As  if  they  thought  they  'd  never  sleep  again, 
Instead  of — 

Pitiless  Crimean  blast, 
How  many  a  howling  lullaby  thou  'It  raise 
To-morrow  night,  all  nights  till  the  world's  end, 
Over  some  sleepers  here ! 

Some  ?  —  who  ?    Dumb  Fate 
Whispers  in  no  man's  ear  his  coming  doom ; 
Each  thinks  —  "  not  I  —  not  I." 

But  thou,  grim  Death, 
I  hear  thee  on  the  night-wind  flying  abroad, 
I  feel  thee  here,  squatted  at  our  tent-door, 
Invisible  and  incommunicable, 
Pointing  : 

«  Hurrah ! " 

Why  yell  so  in  your  sleep, 
Comrade  ?     Did  you  see  aught  ? 

Well  —  let  him  dream : 
Who  knows,  to-morrow  such  a  shout  as  this 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE.     z5 

He  '11  die  with.     A  brave  lad,  and  very  like 
His  sister. 

***** 

So  !  just  two  hours  have  I  lain 
Freezing.     That  pale  white  star,  which  came  and 

peered 

Through  the  tent-opening,  has  passed  on,  to  smile 
Elsewhere,  or  lost  herself!'  the  dark,  —  God  knows. 
Two  hours  nearer  to  dawn.     The  very  hour, 
The  very  hour  and  day,  a  year  ago, 
When  we  light-hearted  and  light-footed  fools 
Went  jingling  idle  swords  in  waltz  and  reel, 
Arid  smiling  in  fair  faces.     How  they  'd  start, 
Those  dainty  red  and  white  soft  faces  kind, 
If  they  could  but  behold  my  visage  now, 
Or  his  —  or  his  —  or  some  poor  faces  cold 
We  covered  up  with  earth  last  noon. 

—  There  sits 

The  laidly  Thing  I  felt  on  our  tent-door 
Two  hours  back.'    It  has  sat  and  never  stirred. 
I  cannot  challenge  it,  or  shoot  it  down, 
Or  grapple  with  it,  as  with  that  young  Russ 
Whom  I  killed  yesterday.    (What  eyes  he  had !  — 
Great  limpid  eyes,  and  curling  dark-red  hair,  — 
A  woman's  picture  hidden  in  his  breast,  — 
I  never  liked  this  fighting  hand  to  hand.) 
No,  it  will  not  be  met  like  flesh  and  blood, 
This  shapeless,  voiceless,  immaterial  Thing, 


26     LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 

Yet  I  will  meet  it.     Here  I  sit  alone,  — 
Show  me  thy  face,  O  Death  ! 

There,  there.     I  think 
I  did  not  tremble. 

I  am  a  young  man  ; 

Have  done  full  many  an  ill  deed,  left  undone 
Many  a  good  one  :  lived  unto  the  flesh, 
Not  to  the  spirit :  I  would  rather  live 
A  few  years  more,  and  try  if  things  might  change. 
Yet,  yet  I  hope  I  do  not  tremble,  Death ; 
And  that  thy  finger  pointed  at  my  heart 
But  calms  the  tumult  there. 

What  small  account 

The  All-living  seems  to  take  of  this  thin  flame 
Which  we  call  life.     He  sends  a  moment's  blast 
Out  of  war's  nostrils,  and  a  myriad 
Of  these  our  puny  tapers  are  blown  out 
Forever.     Yet  we  shrink  not,  —  we,  such  frail 
Poor  knaves,  whom  a  spent  ball  can  instant  strike 
Into  eternity,  —  we  helpless  fools, 
Whom  a  serf's  clumsy  hand  and  clumsier  sword 
Smiting  —  shall  sudden  into  nothingness 
Let  out  that  something  rare  which  could  conceive 
A  universe  and  its  God. 

Free,  open-eyed, 
We  rush  like  bridegrooms  to  Death's  grisly  arms : 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN   THE  FACE.     27 

Surely  the  very  longing  for  that  clasp 
Proves  us  immortal.     Immortality 
Alone  could  teach  this  mortal  how  to  die. 
Perhaps,  war  is  but  Heaven's  great  ploughshare, 

driven 

Over  the  barren,  fallow  earthly  fields, 
Preparing  them  for  harvest ;  rooting  up 
Grass,  weeds,  and  flowers,  which  necessary  fall, 
That  in  these  furrows  the  wise  Husbandman 
May  drop  celestial  seed. 

So  let  us  die ; 

Yield  up  our  little  lives,  as  the  flowers  do ; 
Believing  He  '11  not  lose  one  single  soul,  — 
One  germ  of  His  immortal.     Naught  of  His 
Or  Him  can  perish ;  therefore  let  us  die. 

I  half  remember,  something  like  to  this 
She  says  in  her  dear  letters.     So  —  let 's  die. 
What,  dawn?      The  faint  hum  in  the  trenches 

fails. 

Is  that  a  bell  i'  the  mist  ?     My  faith,  they  go 
Early  to  matins  in  Sebastopol !  — 
A  gun !  —  Lads,  stand  to  your  arms ;  the  Buss  is 

here. 


Band  Heaven,  I  have  looked  Death  in  the  face, 
Help  me  to  die. 


28  BY  THE  ALMA  RIVER. 


BY   THE   ALMA  EIVEE. 

ILLIE,  fold  your  little  hands ; 

Let  it  drop,  that  "  soldier  "  toy  : 
Look  where  father's  picture  stands,  — 
Father,  who  here  kissed  his  boy 
Not  two  months  since,  —  father  kind, 
Who  this  night  may  —     Never  mind 
Mother's  sob,  my  Willie  dear, 
Call  aloud  that  He  may  hear 
Who  is  God  of  battles,  say, 
"  0,  keep  father  safe  this  day 
By  the  Alma  river." 

Ask  no  more,  child.     Never  heed 

Either  Euss,  or  Frank,  or  Turk, 
Eight  of  nations  or  of  creed, 

Chance-poised  victory's  bloody  work : 
Any  flag  i'  the  wind  may  roll 
On  thy  heights,  Sebastopol ; 
Willie,  all  to  you  and  me 
Is  that  spot,  where'er  it  be, 
Where  he  stands  —  no  other  word ! 
Stands — God  sure  the  child's  prayer  heard  — 
By  the  Alma  river. 


BY  THE  ALMA  RIVER.  29 

Willie,  listen  to  the  bells 

Ringing  through  the  town  to-day. 
That 's  for  victory.     Ah,  no  knells 

For  the  many  swept  away,  — 
Hundreds  —  thousands  !     Let  us  weep, 
We  who  need  not,  — just  to  keep 
Reason  steady  in  ray  brain 
Till  the  morning  comes  again, 
Till  the  third  dread  morning  tell 
Who  they  were  that  fought  and  fell 

By  the  Alma  river. 

Come,  we  '11  lay  us  down,  my  child, 
Poor  the  bed  is,  poor  and  hard ; 

Yet  thy  father,  far  exiled, 

Sleeps  upon  the  open  sward, 

Dreaming  of  us  two  at  home  : 

Or  beneath  the  starry  dome 

Digs  out  trenches  in  the  dark, 

Where  he  buries  —  Willie,  mark  — 

Where  he  buries  those  who  died 

Fighting  bravely  at  his  side 
By  the  Alma  river. 

Willie,  Willie,  go  to  sleep, 

God  will  keep  us,  0  my  boy ; 

He  will  make  the  dull  hours  creep 
Faster,  and  send  news  of  joy, 


30  ROTHESAY  BAT. 

When  I  need  not  shrink  to  meet 
Those  dread  placards  in  the  street, 
Which  for  weeks  will  ghastly  stare 
In  some  eyes  —     Child,  say  thy  prayer 
Once  again ;  a  different  one  : 
Say,  «  O  God,  Thy  will  be  done 
By  the  Alma  river." 


ROTHESAY  BAY. 


U'  yellow  lie  the  corn-rigs 

Far  doun  the  braid  hillside ; 
It  is  the  brawest  harst  field 
Alang  the  shores  o'  Clyde,  — 


And  I  'm  a  pair  harst-lassie 

That  stan's  the  lee-lang  day 

Shearing  the  corn-rigs  of  Ardbeg 
Aboon  sweet  Kothesay  Bay. 

O  I  had  ance  a  true-love,  — 
Now,  I  hae  nane  ava  ; 

And  I  had  ance  three  brithers, 
But  I  hae  tint  them  a' ; 

My  father  and  my  mither 

Sleep  i'  the  mools  this  day. 


ROTHESAY  BAY.  31 

I  sit  my  lane  amang  the  rigs 

Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 

It 's  a  bonnie  bay  at  morning, 

And  bonnier  at  the  noon, 
But  it 's  bonniest  when  the  sun  draps 

And  red  comes  up  the  moon  : 
When  the  mist  creeps  o'er  the  Cumbrays, 

And  Arran  peaks  are  gray, 
And  the  great  black  hills,  like  sleepin'  kingi, 

Sit  grand  roun'  Rothesay  Bay, 

Then  a  bit  sigh  stirs  my  bosom, 

And  a  wee  tear  blin's  my  e'e,  — 
And  I  think  o*  that  far  Countrie 

What  I  wad  like  to  be ! 
But  I  rise  content  i'  the  morning 

To  wark  while  wark  I  may 
I'  the  yellow  harst  field  of  Ardbeg 

Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 


32  LIVING. 

LIVING: 

AFTER  A  DEATH. 

"  That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God." 

IVE! 
(Thus  seems  it  we  should  say  to  our 

beloved,  - 
Each  held  by  such  slight  links,  so  oft 

removed;) 

And  I  can  let  thee  go  to  the  world's  end, 
All  precious  names,  companion,  love,  spouse,  friend, 
Seal  up  in  an  eternal  silence  gray, 
Like  a  closed  grave  till  resurrection-day : 
All  sweet  remembrances,  hopes,  dreams,  desires, 
Heap,  as  one  heaps  up  sacrificial  fires  : 
Then,  turning,  consecrate  by  loss,  and  proud 
Of  penury  —  go  back  into  the  loud 
Tumultuous  world  again  with  never  a  moan  — 
Save  that  which  whispers  still,  "My  own,  my  own," 
Unto  the  same  broad  sky  whose  arch  immense 
Enfolds  us  both  like  the  arm  of  Providence  : 
And  thus,  contented,  I  could  live  or  die, 
With  never  clasp  of  hand  or  meeting  eye 
On  this  side  Paradise.  —  While  thee  I  see 
Living  to  God,  thou  art  alive  to  me. 


LIVING. 


33 


O  live  ! 

And  I,  methinks,  can  let  all  dear  rights  go, 

Fond  duties  melt  away  like  April  snow, 

And    sweet,    sweet   hopes,    that   took   a   life   to 

weave, 

Vanish  like  gossamers  of  antumn  eve. 
Nay,  sometimes  seems  it  I  could  even  bear 
To  lay  down  humbly  this  love-crown  I  wear, 
Steal  from  my  palace,  helpless,  hopeless,  poor, 
And  see  another  queen  it  at  the  door,  — 
If  only  that  the  king  had  done  no  wrong, 
If  this  my  palace,  where  I  dwelt  so  long, 
Were  not  defiled  by  falsehood  entering  in  :  — 
There  is  no  loss  but  change,  no  death  but  sin, 
No  parting,  save  the  slow  corrupting  pain 
Of  murdered  faith  that  never  lives  again. 

O  live ! 

(So  endeth  faint  the  low  pathetic  cry 

Of  love,  whom  death  has  taught  love  cannot  die,) 

And  I  can  stand  above  the  daisy  bed, 

The  only  pillow  for  thy  dearest  head, 

There  cover  up  forever  from  my  sight 

My  own,  my  earthly  all  of  earth  delight ; 

And  enter  the  sea-cave  of  widowed  years, 

Where  far,  far  off  the  trembling  gleam  appears 

Through  which  thy  heavenly  image  slipped  away, 

And  waits  to  meet  me  at  the  open  day. 

3 


34 


IN   OUR  BOAT. 


Only  to  me,  my  love,  only  to  me. 
This  cavern  underneath  the  moaning  sea ; 
This  long,  long  life  that  I  alone  must  tread, 
To  whom  the  living  seem  most  like  the  dead,  — 
Thou  wilt  be  safe  out  on  the  happy  shore : 
He  who  in  God  lives,  liveth  evermore. 


IN   OUR  BOAT. 

^|TARS  trembling  o'er  us  and  sunset  be- 
fore us, 
Mountains    in     shadow    and     forests 

asleep  ; 
Down  the  dim  river  we  float  on  forever, 

Speak  not,  ah,  breathe  not,  —  there  's  peace  on 
the  deep. 

.Come  not,  pale  Sorrow,  flee  till  to-morrow, 
Rest  softly  falling  o'er  eyelids  that  weep ; 

While  down  the  river  we  float  on  forever, 

Speak  not,  ah,  breathe  not,  —  there  's  peace  on 
the  deep. 

As  the  waves  cover  the  depths  we  glide  over, 
So  let  the  past  in  forgetfulness  sleep, 


THE  RIVER  SHORE.  35 

While  down  the  river  we  float  on  forever, 

Speak  not,  ah,  breathe  not,  —  there  's  peace  on 
the  deep. 

Heaven  shine  above  us,  bless  all  that  lore  us, 
All  whom  we  love  in  thy  tenderness  keep ! 

While  down  the  river  we  float  on  forever, 

Speak  not,  ah,  breathe  not,  —  there  's  peace  on 
the  deep. 


THE   KIVER   SHORE. 

For  an  old  tune  of  Dowland's. 

• 

JJALKING  by  the  quiet  river 

Where  the  slow  tide  seaward  goes, 
All  the  cares  of  life  fall  from  us, 

All  our  troubles  find  repose : 
Naught  forgetting,  naught,  regretting, 

Lovely  ghosts  from  days  no  more  -K. 

Glide  with  white  feet  o'er  the  river, 
Smiling  towards  the  silent  shore. 

So  we  pray  in  His  good  pleasure 
When  this  world  we  Ve  safely  trod, 

We  may  walk  beside  the  river 
Flowing  from  the  throne  of  God : 


36  A  FLOWER    OF  A  DAY. 

All  forgiving,  all  believing, 
Not  one  lost  we  loved  before, 

Looking  towards  the  hills  of  heaven 
Calmly  from  the  eternal  shore. 


A  FLOWER   OF  A  DAY. 


LD  friend,  that  with  a  pale  and  pensile 

grace 
Climbest  the  lush  hedgerows,  art  thou 

back  again, 

Marking  the  slow  round  of  the  wond'rous  years  ? 
Didst  beckon  me  a  moment,  silent  flower  ? 

Silent  ?     As  silent  is  the  archangel's  pen 
That  day  by  day  writes  our  life  chronicle, 
And  turns  the  page,  —  the  half-forgotten  page, 
Which  all  eternity  will  never  blot. 

Forgotten  ?     No,  we  never  do  forget : 

We  let  the  years  go  :  wash  them  clean  with  tears, 

Leave  them  to  bleach,  out  in  the  open  day, 

Or  lock  them  careful  by,  like  dead  friends'  clothes, 

Till  we  shall  dare  unfold  them  without  pain,  — 

But  we  forget  not,  never  can  forget. 


A  FLOWER    OF  A  DAY.  37 

Flower,  thou  and  I  a  moment  face  to  face  — 
My  face  as  clear  as  thine,  this  July  noon 
Shining  on  both,  on  bee  and  butterfly 
And  golden  beetle  creeping  in  the  sun  — 
Will  pause,  and,  lifting  up,  page  after  page, 
The  many-colored  history  of  life, 
Look  backwards,  backwards. 

So,  the  volume  close ! 

This  July  day,  with  the  sun  high  in  heaven, 
And  the  whole  earth  rejoicing,  —  let  it  close. 

I  think  we  need  not  sigh,  complain,  nor  rave ; 
Nor  blush,  —  our  doings  and  misdoing  all 
.Being  more  'gainst  heaven  than  man,  heaven  them 

does  keep 

With  all  its  doings  and  undoings  strange 
Concerning  us.  —  Ah,  let  the  volume  close  : 
I  would  not  alter  in  it  one  poor  line. 

My  dainty  flower,  my  innocent  white  flower        , 
With  such  a  pure  smile  looking  up  to  heaven, 
With  such  a  bright  smile  looking  down  on  me  — 
(Nothing  but  smiles,  —  as  if  in  all  the  world  . 
Were  no  such  things  as  thunder-storms  or  frosts, 
Or  broken  petals  trampled  on  the  ground, 
Or  shivering  leaves  whirled  in  the  wintry  air 
Like  ghosts  of  last  year's  joys :)  — my  pretty  flower, 


38     THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  MOWING. 

I  '11  pluck  thee  —  smiling  too.     Not  one  salt  drop 
Shall  stain  thee  :  —  if  these  foolish  eyes  are  dim, 
'T  is  only  with  a  wondering  thankfulness 
That  they  behold  such  beauty  and  such  peace, 
Such  wisdom  and  such  sweetness,  in  God's  world. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  MOWING. 


LL  shimmering  in  the  morning  shine 

And  diamonded  with  dew, 
And  quivering  in  the  scented  wind 

That  thrills  its  green  heart  through,  - 
The  little  field,  the  smiling  field, 
With  all  its  flowers  a-blowing, 
How  happy  looks  the  golden  field 
The  day  before  the  mowing ! 

All  still  'neath  the  departing  light, 

Twilight,  though  void  of  stars, 
Save  where,  low  westering,  Venus  hides 

From  the  red  eye  of  Mars ; 
How  quiet  lies  the  silent  field 

With  all  its  beauties  glowing ; 
Just  stirring,  —  like  a  child  asleep,  — 

The  night  before  the  mowing. 


PASSION  PAST.  39 

Sharp  steel,  inevitable  hand, 

Cut  keen,  cut  kind !     Our  field 
We  know  full  well  must  be  laid  low 

Before  its  wealth  it  yield : 
Labor  and  mirth  and  plenty  blest 

Its  blameless  death  bestowing : 
And  yet  we  weep,  and  yet  we  weep, 

The  night  before  the  mowing. 


PASSION   PAST. 

|jEEE  I  a  boy,  with  a  boy's  heart-beat 
At  glimpse  of  her  passing  adown  the 

street, 
Of  a  room  where  she  had  entered  and 

gone, 

Or  a  page  her  hand  had  written  on,  — 
Would  all  be  with  me  as  it  was  before  ? 
O  no,  never !  no,  no,  never ! 
Never  any  more. 

Were  I  a  man,  with  a  man's  pulse-throb, 
Breath  hard  and  fierce,  held  down  like  a  sob, 
Dumb,  yet  hearing  her  lightest  word, 
Blind,  until  only  her  garment  stirred : 


40  PASSION  PAST. 

Would  I  pour  my  life  like  wine  on  her  floor  ? 
No,  no,  never :  never,  never  ! 
Never  any  more. 

Gray  and  withered,  wrinkled  and  marred, 

I  have  gone  through  the  fire  and  come  out  un- 

scarred, 

With  the  image  of  manhood  upon  me  yet, 
No  shame  to  remember,  no  wish  to  forget : 
But  could  she  rekindle  the  pangs  I  bore  ?  — 

0  no,  never !  thank  God,  never ! 
Never  any  more. 

Old  and  wrinkled,  withered  and  gray,  — 
And  yet  if  her  light  step  passed  to-day, 

1  should  see  her  face  all  faces  among, 

And  say,  —  "  Heaven  love  thee,  whom  I  loved  long ! 
Thou  hast  lost  the  key  of  my  heart's  door, 
Lost  it  ever,  and  forever, 
Ay,  forevermore." 


OCTOBER.  41 


OCTOBER. 

^  T  is  no  joy  to  me  to  sit 

On  dreamy  summer  eves, 
When  silently  the  timid  moon 

Kisses  the  sleeping  leaves, 
And  all  things  through  the  fair  hushed  earth 

Love,  rest  —  but  nothing  grieves. 
Better  I  like  old  Autumn 

With  his  hair  tossed  to  and  fro, 
Firm  striding  o'er  the  stubble  fields 
When  the  equinoctials  blow. 

When  shrinkingly  the  sun  creeps  up 

Through  misty  mornings  cold, 
And  Eobin  on  the  orchard  hedge 

Sings  cheerily  and  bold, 
While  heavily  the  frosted  plum 

Drops  downwards  on  the  mould ;  — 
And  as  he  passes,  Autumn 

Into  earth's  lap  does  throw 
Brown  apples  gay  in  a  game  of  play, 

As  the  equinoctials  blow. 

When  the  spent  year  its  carol  sinks 
Into  a  humble  psalm, 


42  MOON-STRUCK. 

Asks  no  more  for  the  pleasure  draught, 

But  for  the  cup  of  balm, 
And  all  its  storms  and  sunshine  bursts 

Controls  to  one  brave  calm,  — 
Then  step  by  step  walks  Autumn, 

With  steady  eyes  that  show 
Nor  grief  nor  fear,  to  the  death  of  the  year, 

While  the  equinoctials  blow. 


MOON-STRUCK. 

A  FANTASY. 

flT  is  a  moor 

Barren  and  treeless;   lying  high  and 

bare 
Beneath  the  arched  sky.     The  rushing 

winds 

Fly  over  it,  each  with  his  strong  bow  bent 
And  quiver  full  of  whistling  arrows  keen. 

I  am  a  woman,  lonely,  old,  and  poor. 

If  there  be  any  one  who  watches  me 

(But  there  is  none)  adown  the  long  blank  wold, 

My  figure  painted  on  the  level  sky 


MOON-STRUCK.  43 

Would  startle  him  as  if  it  were  a  ghost, — 
And  like  a  ghost,  a  weary  wandering  ghost, 
I  roam  and  roam,  and  shiver  through  the  dark 
That  will  not  hide  me.     O  for  but  one  hour, 
One  blessed  hour  of  warm  and  dewy  night, 
To  wrap  me  like  a  pall  —  with  not  an  eye 
In  earth  or  heaven  to  pierce  the  black  serene. 
Night,  call   ye  this  ?     No  night ;  no  dark  —  no 

rest  — 

A  moon-ray  sweeps  down  sudden  from  the  sky, 
And  smites  the  moor  — 

Is  't  thou,  accursed  Thing, 
Broad,  pallid,  like  a  great  woe  looming  out  — 
Out  of  its  long-sealed  grave,  to  fill  all  earth 
With  its  dead,  ghastly  smile  ?     Art  there  again, 
Hound,  perfect,  large,  as  when  we  buried  thee, 
I  and  the  kindly  clouds  that  heard  my  prayers  ? 
I  '11  sit  me  down  and  meet  thee  face  to  face, 
Mine  enemy !  —  Why  didst  thou  rise  upon 
My  world  —  my  innocent  world,  to  make  me  mad  ? 
Wherefore  shine  forth,  a  tiny  tremulous  curve 
Hung  out  in  the  gray  sunset  beauteously, 
To  tempt  mine  eyes  —  then  nightly  to  increase 
Slow  orbing,  till  thy  full,  blank,  pitiless  stare 
Hunts  me  across  the  world  ? 

No  rest  —  no  dark. 

Hour  after  hour  that  passionless  bright  face 
Climbs  up  the  desolate  blue.     I  will  press  down 


44  MOON-STRUCK. 

The  lids  on  my  tired  eyeballs  —  crouch  in  dust, 
And  pray. 

—  Thank  God,  thank  God  !  —  a  cloud  has  hid 
My  torturer.     The  night  at  last  is  free  : 
Forth  peep  in  crowds  the  merry  twinkling  stars. 
Ah,  we  '11  shine  out,  the  little  silly  stars 
And  I ;  we  '11  dance  together  across  the  moor, 
They  up  aloft  —  I  here.     At  last,  at  last 
We  are  avenged  of  our  adversary ! 

The  freshening  of  the  night  air  feels  like  dawn. 
Who  said  that  I  was  mad  ?     I  will  arise, 
Throw  off  my  burthen,  march  across  the  wold 
Airily — Ha!  what,  stumbling?     Nay,  no  fear  — 
I  am  used  unto  the  dark,  for  many  a  year 
Steering  companionless  athwart  the  waste 
To  where,  deep  hid  in  valleys  of  white  mist, 
The  pleasant  home-lights  shine.     I  will  but  pause, 
Turn  round  and  gaze  — 

O  me !  O  miserable  me ! 
The  cloud-bank  overflows  :  sudden  outpour 
The  bright  white  moon-rays  —  ah !    I  drown,  I 

drown, 

And  o'er  the  flood,  with  steady  motion,  slow 
It  walketh  —  my  inexorable  Doom. 

No  more  :  I  shall  not  struggle  any  more  : 
I  will  lie  down  as  quiet  as  a  child,  — 
I  can  but  die. 


MOON-STRUCK. 


45 


There,  I  have  hid  my  face  : 
Stray  travellers  passing  o'er  the  silent  wold 
Would  only  say,  "  She  sleeps." 

Glare  on,  my  Doom ; 
I  will  not  look  at  thee  :  and  if  at  times 
I  shiver,  still  I  neither  weep  nor  moan : 
Angels  may  see,  I  neither  weep  nor  moan. 

"Was  that  sharp  whistling  wind  the  morning  breeze 
That  calls  the  stars  back  to  the  obscure  of  heaven  ? 
I  am  very  cold.  —  And  yet  there  is  a  change. 
Less  fiercely  the  sharp  moonbeams  smite  my  brain, 
My  heart  beats  slower,  duller  :  soothing  rest 
Like  a  soft  garment  binds  my  shuddering  limbs.  — 
If  I  looked  up  now,  should  I  see  it  still 
Gibbeted  ghastly  in  the  hopeless  sky  ?  — 
No! 

It  is  very  strange  :  all  things  seem  strange  : 
Pale  spectral  face,  I  do  not  fear  thee  now  : 
Was  't  this  mere  shadow  which  did  haunt  me  once 
Like  an  avenging  fiend  ?  —  Well,  we  fade  out 
Together :  I  '11  nor  dread  nor  curse  thee  more. 

How  calm  the  earth  seems !  and  I  know  the  moor 
Glistens  with  dew-stars.     I  will  try  and  turn 
My  poor  face  eastward.  Close  not,  eyes  !  That  light 
Fringing  the  far  hills,  all  so  fair  —  so  fair, 
Is  it  not  dawn  ?     I  am  dying,  but  Jt  is  dawn. 


46  A  STREAMS  SINGING. 

"Upon  the  mountains  I  behold  the  feet 
Of  my  Beloved:  let  us  forth  to  meet "  — 
Death. 

This  is  death.     I  see  the  light  no  more ; 
I  sleep. 

But  like  a  morning  bird  my  soul 
Springs  singing  upward,  into  the  deeps  of  heaven 
Through  world  on  world  to  follow  Infinite  Day. 


A  STREAM'S   SINGING. 

HOW  beautiful  is  Morning ! 
How  the  sunbeams  strike  the  daisies, 
And  the  kingcups  fill  the  meadow 
Like  a  golden-shielded  army 
Marching  to  the  uplands  fair ;  — 
I  am  going  forth  to  battle, 
And  life's  uplands  rise  before  me, 
And  my  golden  shield  is  ready, 
And  I  pause  a  moment,  timing 
My  heart's  paean  to  the  waters, 
As  with  cheerful  song  incessant 

Onwards  runs  the  little  stream ; 
Singing  ever,  onward  ever, 

Boldly  runs  the  merry  stream. 


A  STREAM'S  SINGING.  47 

0  how  glorious  is  Noon-day  ! 
With  the  cool  large  shadows  lying 
Underneath  the  giant  forest, 

The  far  hill-tops  towering  dimly 

O'er  the  conquered  plains  below ;  — 

1  am  conquering  —  I  shall  conquer 
In  life's  battle-field  impetuous  : 

And  I  lie  and  listen  dreamy  k 

To  a  double-voiced,  low  music,  — 
Tender  beech-trees  sheeny  shiver 
Mingled  with  the  diapason 

Of  the  strong,  deep,  joyful  stream, 
Like  a  man's  love  and  a  woman's  ; 
'  So  it  runs  —  the  happy  stream ! 

0  how  grandly  cometh  Even, 
Sitting  on  the  mountain  summit, 
Purple-vestured,  grave,  and  silent, 
Watching  o'er  the  dewy  valleys, 

Like  a  good  king  near  his  end  :  — 

1  have  labored,  I  have  governed; 
Now  I  feel  the  gathering  shadows 
Of  the  night  that  closes  all  things  : 
And  the  fair  earth  fades  before  me, 
And  the  stars  leap  out  in  heaven, 
While  into  the  infinite  darkness 

Solemn  runs  the  steadfast  stream  — 
Onward,  onward,  ceaseless,  fearless, 
Singing  runs  the  eternal  stream. 


48  *  A  REJECTED  LOVER. 


A  REJECTED   LOVER, 

'  never  loved  me/'  Ada.      These 
slow  words, 

Dropped  softly  from  your  gentle  wo- 
man-tongue 
Out  of  your  true  and  kindly  woman-heart, 
Fell,  piercing  into  mine  like  very  swords 
The  sharper  for  their  kindness.     Yet  no  wrong 
Lies  to  your  charge,  nor  cruelty,  nor  artx  — 
Ev'n  while  you  spoke,  I  saw  the  tender  tear-drop 
start. 

You  "  never  loved  me."    No,  you  never  knew, 
You,  with  youth's  morning  fresh  upon  your  soul, 
What  't  is  to  love :  slow,  drop  by  drop,  to  pour 
Our  life's  whole  essence,  perfumed  through  and 

through 

With  all  the  best  we  have  or  can  control 
For  the  libation  —  cast  it  down  before 
Your  feet — then  lift  the  goblet,  dry  for  evermore. 

I  shall  not  die  as  foolish  lovers  do : 

A  man's  heart  beats  beneath  this  breast  of  mine, 

The  breast  where  —  Curse  on  that  fiend-whispering 


A  LIVING  PICTURE. 


49 


"  It  might  have  been  !  "  — Ada,  I  will  be  true 
Unto  myself —  the  self  that  so  loved  thine  : 
May  all  life's  pain,  like  these  few  tears  that  spring 
For  me,  glance  off  as  rain-drops  from  my  white 
dove's  wing ! 

May  you  live  long,  some  good  man's  bosom- 
flower, 

And  gather  children  round  your  matron  knees  : 
So,  when  all  this  is  past,  and  you  and  I 
Remember  each  our  youth-days  as  an  hour 
Of  joy  —  or  anguish,  one,  serene,  at  ease, 
M.ay  come  to  meet  the  other's  steadfast  eye, 
Thinking,  "  He  loved  me  well ! "  clasp  hands,  and 
so  pass  by. 


A  LIVING  PICTURE. 

, 1  '11  not  say  your  name.    I  have  said 

it  now, 
As  you  mine,  first  in  childish  treble, 

then 

Up  through  a  score  and  more  familiar  years 
Till  baby-voices  mock  us.  Time  may  come 
When  your  tall  sons  look  down  on  our  white  hair, 

4 


5° 


A  LIVING  PICTURE. 


Amused  to  hear  us  call  each  other  thus, 
And  question  us  about  the  old,  old  days, 
The  far-off  days,  the  days  when  we  were  young. 

How  distant  do  they  seem,  and  yet  how  near ! 
Now,  as  I  lie  and  watch  you  come  and  go, 
"With  garden  basket  in  your  hand ;  in  gown 
Just  girdled,  and  brown  curls  that  girl-like  fall, 
And  straw  hat  flapping  in  the  April  breeze, 
I  could  forget  this  lapse  of  years  —  start  up 
Laughing  —  "  Come,  let 's  go  play !  " 

Well-a-day,  friend, 
Our  play-days  are  all  done. 

Still,  let  us  smile : 

For  as  you  flit  about  your  garden  here 
You  look  like  this  spring  morning :  on  your  lips 
An  unseen  bird  sings  snatches  of  gay  tunes, 
While,  an  embodied  music,  moves  your  step, 
Your  free,  wild,  springy  step,  like  Atala's, 
Or  Pocahontas,  careless  child  o'  the  sun  — 
Those  Indian  beauties  I  compare  you  to  — 
I,  still  your  praiser,  — 

Nay,  nay,  I  '11  not  praise, 
Fair  seemeth  fairest,  ignorant 't  is  fair : 
That  light  incredulous  laugh  is  worth  a  world ! 
That  laugh,  with  childish  echoes. 

So  then,  fade, 
Mere  dream,     Coine,  true  and  sweet  reality : 


A  LIVING  PICTURE.  51 

Come,  dawn  of  happy  wifehood,  motherhood, 
Eipening  to  perfect  noon  !     Come,  peaceful  round 
Of  simple  joys,  fond  duties,  gladsome  cares, 
When  each  full  hour  drops  bliss  with  liberal  hand, 
Yet  leaves  to-morrow  richer  than  to-day. 

Will  you  sit  here  ?  the  grass  is  summer-warm. 
Look  at  those  children  making  daisy-chains, 
So  did  we  too,  do  you  mind  ?     That  eldest  lad, 
He  has  your  very  mouth.     Yet,  you  will  have  't 
His  eyes  are  like  his  father's  ?     Perhaps  so : 
They  could  not  be  more  dark  and  deep  and  kind. 
Do  you  know,  this  hour  I  have  been  fancying  you 
A  poet's  dream,  and  almost  sighed  to  think 
There  was  no  poet  to  praise  you  — 

Why,  you  're  flown 

After  those  mad  elves  in  the  flower-beds  there, 
Ha  —  ha  —  you  're  no  dream  now. 

Well,  well  — so  best! 

My  eyelids  droop  content  o'er  moistened  eyes  : 
I  would  not  have  you  other  than  you  are. 


52  LEONORA. 


LEONORA. 

[JEONORA,  Leonora, 

How  the  word  rolls  —  Leonora  — 
Lion-like,  in  full-mouthed  sound, 
Marching  o'er  the  metric  ground 

With  a  tawny  tread  sublime  — 

So  your  name  moves,  Leonora, 

Down  my  desert  rhyme. 

So  you  pace,  young  Leonora, 
Through  the  alleys  of  the  wood, 
Head  erect,  majestic,  tall, 
The  fit  daughter  of  the  Hall : 
Yet  with  hazel  eyes  declined, 
And  a  voice  like  summer  wind, 
And  a  meek  mouth,  sweet  and  good, 
Dimpling  ever,  Leonora, 
In  fair  womanhood. 

How  those  smiles  dance,  Leonora, 
As  you  meet  the  pleasant  breeze 
Under  your  ancestral  trees : 
For  your  heart  is  free  and  pure 
As  this  blue  March  sky  overhead, 
And  in  the  life-path  you  tread, 


LEONORA.  53 

All  the  leaves  are  budding,  sure, 
All  the  primroses  are  springing, 
All  the  birds  begin  their  singing  — 
'T  is  your  spring-time,  Leonora, 
May  it  long  endure. 

But  it  will  pass,  Leonora : 
And  the  silent  days  must  fall 
When  a  change  comes  over  all : 
When  the  last  leaf  downward  flitters, 
And  the  last,  last  sunbeam  glitters 
On  the  terraced  hillside  cool, 
On  the  peacocks  by  the  pool : 
When  you  '11  walk  along  these  alleys 
With  no  lightsome  foot  that  dallies 
With  the  violets  and  the  moss,  — 
But  with  quiet  steps  and  slow, 
And  grave  eyes  that  earthward  grow, 
And  a  matron-heart  inured 
To  all  women  have  endured,  — 
Must  endure  and  ever  will, 
All  the  joy  and  all  the  ill, 
All  the  gain  and  all  the  loss  — 
Can  you  cheerfully  lay  down 
Careless  girlhood's  flowery  crown, 
And  thus  take  up,  Leonora, 
Womanhood's  meek  cross  ? 


54  LEONORA. 

Ay !  your  eyes  shine,  Leonora, 

Warm,  and  true,  and  brave,  and  kind : 

And  although  I  nothing  know 

Of  the  maiden  heart  below, 

I  in  them  good  omens  find. 

Go,  enjoy  your  present  hours 

Like  the  birds  and  bees  and  flowers : 

And  may  summer  days  bestow 

On  you  just  so  much  of  rain, 

Blessed  baptism  of  pain ! 

As  will  make  your  blossoms  grow. 

May  you  walk,  as  through  life's  road 

Every  noble  woman  can,  — 

With  a  pure  heart  before  God, 

And  a  true  heart  unto  man  : 

Till  with  this  same  smile  you  wait 

For  the  opening  of  the  Gate 

That  shuts  earth  from  mortal  eyes ; 

Till  at  last,  with  peaceful  heart, 

All  contented  to  depart, 

Leaving  children's  children  playing 

In  these  woods  you  used  to  stray  in, 

You  may  enter,  Leonora, 

Into  Paradise. 


PLIGHTED.  55 


PLIGHTED. 

E  to  the  core  of  the  heart,  my  beauty ! 
Mine,  all  mine,  and  for  love,  not  duty  : 
Love  given  willingly,  full  and  free, 
Love  for  love's  sake  —  as  mine  to  thee. 
Duty's  a  slave  that  keeps  the  keys, 
But  Love,  the  master,  goes  in  and  out 
Of  his  goodly  chambers  with  song  and  shout, 
Just  as  he  please — just  as  he  please. 

Mine,  from  the  dear  head's  crown,  brown-golden, 
To  the  silken  foot  that 's  scarce  beholden ; 
Give  to  a  few  friends  hand  or  smile, 
Like  a  generous  lady,  now  and  awhile, 

But  the  sanctuary  heart,  that  none  dare  win, 
Keep  holiest  of  holiest  evermore ; 
The  crowd  in  the  aisles  may  watch  the  door, 

The  high-priest  only  enters  in. 

Mine,  my  own,  without  doubts  or  terrors, 
With  all  thy  goodnesses,  all  thy  errors, 
Unto  me  and  to  me  alone  revealed, 
"  A  spring  shut  up,  a  fountain  sealed." 

Many  may  praise  thee  —  praise  mine  as  thine, 


56  MORTALITY. 

Many  may  love  thee  —  I  '11  love  them  too  ; 
But  thy  heart  of  hearts,  pure,  faithful,  and  true, 
Must  be  mine,  mine  wholly,  and  only  mine. 

Mine!  —  God,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast  given 
Something  all  mine  on  this  side  heaven : 
Something  as  much  myself  to  be 
As  this  my  soul  which  I  lift  to  Thee : 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone, 
Life  of  my  life,  whom  Thou  dost  make 
Two  to  the  world  for  the  world's  work's  sake  — 

But  each  unto  each,  as  in  Thy  sight,  one. 


MORTALITY. 

"  And  we  shall  be  changed." 

E  dainty  mosses,  lichens  gray, 

Pressed  each  to  each  in  tender  fold, 
And  peacefully  thus,  day  by  day, 
Returning  to  their  mould  ; 

Brown  leaves,  that  with  aerial  grace 

Slip  from  your  branch  like  birds  a-wing, 

Each  leaving  in  the  appointed  place 
Its  bud  of  future  spring ;  — 


MORTALITY. 

If  we,  God's  conscious  creatures,  knew 
But  half  your  faith  in  our  decay, 

We  should  not  tremble  as  we  do 
When  summoned  clay  to  clay. 

But  with  an  equal  patience  sweet 
We  should  put  off  this  mortal  gear, 

In  whatsoe'er  new  form  is  meet 
Content  to  reappear. 

Knowing  each  germ  of  life  He  gives 
Must  have  in  Him  its  source  and  rise, 

Being  that  of  His  being  lives 
May  change,  but  never  dies. 

Ye  dead  leaves,  dropping  soft  and  slow, 
Ye  mosses  green  and  lichens  fair, 

Go  to  your  graves,  as  I  will  go, 
For  God  is  also  there. 


57 


58  LIFE  RETURNING. 

LIFE   RETURNING. 

After  War-time. 

LIFE,  dear  life,  with  sunbeam  finger 

touching 
This  poor  damp  brow,  or  flying  freshly 

by 

On  wings  of  mountain  wind,  or  tenderly 
In  links  of  visionary  embraces  clutching 

Me  from  the  yawning  grave  — 
Can  I  believe  thou  yet  hast  power  to  save  ? 

I  see  thee,  O  my  life,  like  phantom  giant 

Stand  on  the  hill-top,  large  against  the  dawn, 
Upon  the  night-black  clouds  a  picture  drawn 

Of  aspect  wonderful,  with  hope  defiant, 
And  so  majestic  grown 

I  scarce  discern  the  image  as  my  own. 

Those  mists  furl  off,  and  through   the  vale  re- 
splendent 

I  see  the  pathway  of  my  years  prolong : 
Not  without  labor,  yet  for  labor  strong : 
Not  without  pain,  but  pain  whose  touch  transcen- 
dent 


MY  FRIEND.  59 

By  love's  divinest  laws 
Heart  unto  heart,  and  all  hearts  upwards,  draws. 

0  life,  O  love,  your  diverse  tones  bewildering 
Make  silence,  like  two  meeting  waves  of  sound ; 

1  dream  of  wifely  white  arms,  lisp  of  children  — 
Never  of  ended  wars, 

Save  kisses  sealing  honorable  scars. 

No  more  of  battles !  save  the  combat  glorious 
To  which  all  earth  and  heaven  may  witness 

stand ; 
The  sword  of  the  Spirit  taking  in  my  hand 

I  shall  go  forth,  since  in  new  fields  victorious 
The  King  yet  grants  that  I 

His  servant  live,  or  His  good  soldier  die. 


MY  FEIEND. 

fp£|Y  Friend  wears  a  cheerful  smile  of  his 

own, 

And  a  musical  tongue  has  he ; 
We  sit  and  look  in  each  other's  face, 
And  are  very  good  company. 
A  heart  he  has,  full  warm  and  red 
As  ever  a  heart  I  see ; 


60  MY  FRIEND. 

And  as  long  as  I  keep  true  to  him, 
Why,  he  '11  keep  true  to  me. 

When  the  wind  blows  high  and  the  snow  falls  fast 

And  we  hear  the  wassailers'  roar  — 
My  Friend  and  I,  with  a  right  good-will 

We  bolt  the  chamber  door  : 
I  smile  at  him  and  he  smiles  at  me 

In  a  dreamy  calm  profound, 
Till  his  heart  leaps  up  in  the  midst  of  him 

With  a  comfortable  sound. 

His  warm  breath  kisses  my  thin  gray  hair 

And  reddens  my  ashen  cheeks ; 
He  knows  me  better  than  you  all  know, 

Though  never  a  word  he  speaks  :  — 
Knows  me  as  well  as  some  had  known 

Were  things  —  not  as  things  be. 
But  hey,  what  matters  ?  my  Friend  and  I 

Are  capital  company. 

At  dead  of  night,  when  the  house  is  still, 

He  opens  his  pictures  fair : 
Faces  that  are,  that  used  to  be, 

And  faces  that  never  were : 
My  wife  sits  sewing  beside  my  hearth, 

My  little  ones  frolic  wild, 
Though  —  Lillian  's  married  these  twenty  years, 

And  I  never  had  a  child. 


A    VALENTINE.  61 

But  hey,  what  matters  ?  when  those  who  laugh 

May  weep  to-morrow,  and  they 
Who  weep  be  as  those  that  wept  not  —  all 

Their  tears  long  wiped  away. 
I  shall  burn  out,  like  you,  my  Friend, 

With  a  bright  warm  heart  and  bold, 
That  flickers  up  to  the  last  —  then  drops 

Into  quiet  ashes  cold. 

And  when  you  flicker  on  me,  old  Friend, 

In  the  old  man's  elbow-chair, 
Or  —  something  easier  still,  where  we 

Lie  down,  to  arise  up  fair 
And  young,  and  happy  —  why  then,  my  Friend, 

Should  other  friends  ask  of  me, 
Tell  them  I  lived  and  loved  and  died 

In  the  best  of  all  company. 


A  VALENTINE. 

[|E  are  twa  laddies  unco  gleg, 

An'  blithe  an'  bonnie : 
As  licht  o'  heel  as  Anster's  Meg ;  — 
Gin  ye  'd  a  lassie's  favor  beg, 
I'  faith  'she  couldna  stir  a  peg 
Ance  lookin'  on  ye ! 


6*  A    VALENTINE. 

He's  a  douce  wiselike  callant  —  Jim  : 

Of  wit  aye  ready. 

Cuts  aff  ane's  sentence,  't  ither's  limb, 
An'  whiles  lie  's  daft  and  whiles  he  's  grim, 
But  brains  ?  —  wha  's  got  the  like  o'  him 

In  's  wee  bit  heidie  ? 

Dear  laddie  wi'  the  curlin'  hair, 

Gentlest  of  ony : 

That  gies  kind  looks  an*  speeches  fair 
To  dour  auld  wives  as  lassies  rare,  — 
I  ken  a  score  o'  lads  an'  mair, 
But  nane  like  Johnnie ! 


And  gin  ye  learn  the  way  to  woo, 

Hae  sweethearts  mony, 
O  laddie,  never  say  ye  loe 
An'  gie  fause  coin  for  siller  true ; 
A  lassie's  sair  heart 's  naething  new,  — 

Mind  o'  that,  Johnnie. 

An'  dinna  change  your  luve  sae  fast 

For  ilk  face  bonnie, 
Lest  waefu'  want  track  wilfu'  waste, 
And  a'  your  youthfu'  years  lang  past, 
Ye  get  the  crookit  stick  at  last, 

Ochone,  puir  Johnnie ! 


A    VALENTINE.  63 

But  callants  baith,  tak  tent,  and  when 

Bright  e'en  hae  won  ye, 
Tak  each  your  jo  —  and  keep  her — then 
Be  faithfu'  as  ye  're  fond,  ye  ken, 
Or  —  gang  your  gate  like  honest  men, 

Young  Jim  and  Johnnie. 

Sae  when  auld  Time  his  crookit  claw 

Sail  lay  upon  ye, 

When,  Jim,  your  feet  that  dance  sae  braw 
Are  no  the  lightest  in  the  ha', 
An'  a'  your  curly  haffets  fa', 

My  winsome  Johnnie,  — 

May  each  his  ain  warm  ingle  view, 

Cosie  as  ony : 

A  gudewife  sonsie,  leal  and  true, 
O'  bonnie  dochters  not  a  few, 
An'  lads  —  sic  lads  as  ye  're  the  noo  — 

Dear  Jim  and  Johnnie ! 


64  GRACE  OF  CLYDE  SIDE. 


GRACE   OF   CLYDESIDE. 

H,  little  Grace  of  the  golden  locks, 

The  hills  rise  fair  on  the  shores  of 

Clyde. 

As  the  merry  waves  wear  out  these  rocks 
She  wears  my  heart  out,  glides  past  and  mocks : 
But  heaven's  gate  ever  stands  open  wide. 

The  boat  goes  softly  along,  along, 

Like  a  river  of  life  glows  the  amber  Clyde ; 
Her  voice  floats  near  me  like  angels'  song,  — 
Ah,  sweet  love-death,  but  thy  pangs  are  strong ! 
Though  heaven's  gate  ever  stands  open  wide. 

We  walk  by  the  shore  and  the  stars  shine  bright, 

But  coldly,  above  the  solemn  Clyde : 
Her  arm  touches  mine  —  her  laugh  rings  light  — 
OXE  hears  my  silence  :  His  merciful  night 
Hides  me  —  Can  heaven  be  open  wide  ? 

I  ever  was  but  a  dreamer,  Grace : 

As  the  gray  hills  watch  o'er  the  sunny  Clyde, 
Standing  afar,  each  in  his  place, 
I  watch  your  young  life's  beautiful  race, 

Apart  —  until  heaven  be  opened  wide. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL    WOMAN.          65 

And  sometimes  when  in  the  twilight  balm 
The  hills  grow  purple  along  the  Clyde, 
The  waves  flow  softly  and  very  calm, 
I  hear  all  nature  sing  this  one  psalm, 

That  "  heaven's  gate  ever  stands  open  wide/' 

So,  happy  Grace,  with  your  spirit  free, 
Laugh  on  !  life  is  sweet  on  the  banks  of  Clyde ; 

This  is  no  blame  unto  thee  or  me; 

Only  God  saw  it  could  not  be, 
Therefore  His  heaven  stands  open  wide. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 

"  A  daughter  of  the  gods  :  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair." 

PURELY,   dame  Nature  made  you  in 

some  dream 
Of  old-world  women  —  Chriemhild,  or 

bright 

Aslauga,  or  Boadicea  fierce  and  fair, 
Or  Berengaria  as  she  rose,  her  lips 
Yet  ruddy  from  the  poison  that  anoints 
Her  memory  still,  the  queen  of  queenly  wives. 

5 


66          TO  A  BEAUTIFUL    WOMAN. 

I  marvel,  who  will  crown  you  wife,  you  grand 

And  goodly  creature !  who  will  mount  supreme 

The  empty  chariot  of  your  maiden  heart, 

Curb  the  strong  will  that  leaps  and  foams  and  chafes 

Still  masterless,  and  guide  you  safely  home 

Unto  the  golden  gate,  where  quiet  sits 

Grave  Matronhood,  with  gracious,  loving  eyes. 

What  eyes  you  have,  you  wild  gazelle  o'  the  plain, 
You  fierce  hind  of  the  forest !  now  they  flash, 
Now  glow,  now  in  their  own  dark  down-dropt  shade 
Conceal  themselves  a  moment,  as  some  thought, 
Too  brief  to  be  a  feeling,  flits  across 
The  April  cloudland  of  your  careless  soul  — 
There  —  that  light  laugh  —  and  't  is  full  sun  — 
full  day. 

Would  I  could  paint  you,  line  by  line,  ere  Time 

Touches  the  gorgeous  picture !  your  ripe  mouth, 

Your  white  arched  throat,  your  stature  like  to  Saul's 

Among  his  brethren,  yet  so  fitly  framed 

In  such  harmonious  symmetry,  we  say 

As  of  a  cedar  among  common  trees 

Never  "  How  tall !  "  but  only  "  0  how  fair  ! " 

Who  made  you  fair  ?  moulded  you  in  the  shape 
That  poets  dream  of;  sent  you  forth  to  men 
His  caligraph  inscribed  on  every  curve 
Of  your  brave  form  ? 


MARY'S  WEDDING.  67 

Is  it  written  on  your  soul? 
—  I  know  not. 

Woman,  upon  whom  is  laid 
Heaven's  own  sign-manual,  Beauty,  mock  heaven 

not! 

Reverence  thy  loveliness  —  the  outward  type 
Of  things  we  understand  not,  nor  behold 
But  as  in  a  glass,  darkly ;  wear  it  thou 
With  awful  gladness,  grave  humility, 
That  not  contemns,  nor  boasts,  nor  is  ashamed, 
But  lifts  its  face  up  prayerfully  to  heaven,  — 
"Thou  who  hast  made  me,  make   me  worthy 

Thee ! " 


MARY'S   WEDDING. 

February  25th,  1851. 

'jOU  are  to  be  married,  Mary  ; 
This  hour  as  I  wakeful  lie 
In  the  dreamy  dawn  of  the  morning, 

Your  wedding  hour  draws  nigh ; 
Miles  off,  you  are  rising,  dressing, 
Your  bridemaidens  gay  among, 
In  the  same  old  house  we  played  in,  — 
You  and  I,  when  we  were  young. 


68  MARY'S    WEDDING. 

Your  bridemaids  —  they  were  our  playmates  : 

Those  known  rooms,  every  wall, 
Could  speak  of  our  childish  frolics, 

Loves,  jealousies,  great  and  small : 
Do  you  mind  how  pansies  changed  we 

And  smiled  at  the  word  "  forget "  ?  — 
'T  was  a  girl's  romance  :  yet  somehow 

I  have  kept  my  pansy  yet. 

Do  you  mind  our  poems  written 

Together  ?  our  dreams  of  fame  — 
And  of  love  —  how  we  'd  share  all  secrets 

When  that  sweet  mystery  came  ? 
It  is  no  mystery  now,  Mary ; 

It  was  unveiled,  year  by  year, 
Till  —  this  is  your  marriage  morning ; 

.And  I  rest  quiet  here. 

I  cannot  call  up  your  face,  Mary, 

The  face  of  the  bride  to-day : 
You  have  outgrown  my  knowledge, 

The  years  have  so  slipped  away. 
I  see  but  your  girlish  likeness, 

Brown  eyes  and  brown  falling  hair ;  — 
God  knows,  I  did  love  you  dearly, 

And  was  proud  that  you  were  fair. 

Many  speak  my  name,  Mary, 

While  yours  in  home's  silence  lies : 


BETWEEN   TWO    WORLDS.  69 

The  future  I  read  in  toil's  guerdon, 
You  will  read  in  your  children's  eyes : 

The  past  —  the  same  past  with  either  — 
Is  to  you  a  delightsome  scene, 

But  I  cannot  trace  it  clearly 

For  the  graves  that  rise  between. 

I  am  glad  you  are  happy,  Mary ! 

These  tears,  could  you  see  them  fall, 
Would  show,  though  you  have  forgotten, 

I  have  remembered  all. 
And  though  my  cup  may  be  empty 

While  yours  is  all  running  o'er, 
Heaven  keep  you  its  sweetness,  Mary, 

Brimming  for  evermore. 


BETWEEN   TWO   WORLDS. 

Parting  for  Australia. 

F]ERE  sitting  by  the  fire 
I  aspire,  love,  I  aspire  — 
Not  to  that   "other  world"  of  your 

fond  dreams, 
But  one  as  nigh  and  nigher, 
Compared  to  which  your  real,  unreal  seems. 


7o  BETWEEN  TWO    VfORLDS. 

Together  as  to-night 

In  our  light,  love,  in  our  light 
Of  reunited  joy  appears  no  shade  : 

From  this  our  hope's  reached  height 
All  things  are  possible  and  level  made. 

Therefore  we  sit  and  view  — 

I  and  you,  love,  I  and  you  — 
That  wondrous  valley  o'er  southern  seas, 

Where  in  a  country  new 
You  will  make  for  me  a  sweet  nest  of  ease ; 

Where  I,  your  poor  tired  bird, 

(Nothing  stirred?     Love,  nothing  stirred?) 
May  fold  her  wings  and  be  no  more  distrest : 

Where  troubles  may  be  heard 
Like  outside  winds  at  night  which  deepen  rest. 

Where  in  green  pastures  wide 

We  '11  abide,  love,  we  '11  abide, 
And  keep  content  our  patriarchal  flocks, 

Till  at  our  aged  side 
Leap  our  young  brown-faced  shepherds  of  the  rocks. 

Ah,  tale  that 's  easy  told  ! 

(Hold  my  hand,  love,  tighter  hold.) 
What  if  this  face  of  mine,  which  you  think  fair  — 

If  it  should  ne'er  grow  old, 
Nor  matron  cap  cover  this  maiden  hair  ? 


BETWEEN   TWO    WORLDS.  7i 

What  if  this  silver  ring 

(Loose  it  clings,  love,  yet  does  cling :) 
Should  ne'er  be  changed  for  any  other  ?  nay, 

This  very  hand  I  fling 

About  your  neck  should —     Hush!  to-day's  to- 
day: 

To-morrow  is  —  ah,  whose  ? 

You  '11  not  lose,  love,  you  '11  not  lose 
This  hand  I  pledged,  if  never  a  wife's  hand 

Eor  tender  household  use 
Led  by  yours  fearless  into  a  far,  far  land. 

Kiss  me  and  do  not  grieve ; 

I  believe,  love,  I  believe 
That  He  who  holds  the  measure  of  our  days, 

And  did  thus  strangely  weave 
Our  opposite  lives  together,  to  His  praise  — 

He  never  will  divide 

Us  so  wide,  love,  us  so  wide : 
But  will,  whate'cr  befalls  us,  clearly  show 

That  those  in  Him  allied 
In  life  or  death  are  nearer  than  they  know. 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 

COUSIN  Robert,  far  away 
Among  the  lands  of  gold, 

How  many  years  since  we  two  met  ?  - 
You  would  not  like  it  told. 


0  cousin  Robert,  buried  deep 
Amid  your  bags  of  gold  — 

1  thought  I  saw  you  yesternight 
Just  as  you  were  of  old. 

You  own  whole  leagues  —  I  half  a  rood 

Behind  my  cottage  door ; 
You  have  your  lacs  of  gold  rupees, 

And  I  my  children  four ; 

Your  tall  barques  dot  the  dangerous  seas, 
My  "  ship  's  come  home  "  —  to  rest 

Safe  anchored  from  the  storms  of  life 
Upon  one  faithful  breast. 

And  it  would  cause  no  start  or  sigh, 
Nor  thought  of  doubt  or  blame, 

If  I  should  teach  our  little  son 
His  cousin  Robert's  name.  — 


COUSIN  ROBERT.  73 

That  name,  however  wide  it  rings, 

I  oft  think,  when  alone, 
^rather  would  have  seen  it  graved 
on  a  churchyard  stone  — 

Upon  the  white  sunshining  stone 

"Where  cousin  AHelr.  lies  : 
Ah,  sometimes,  woe  to  him  that  lives ! 

Happy  is  he  that  dies  ! 

0  Robert,  Robert,  many  a  tear  — 
Though  not  the  tears  of  old  — 

Drops,  thinking  of  your  face  last  night 
Your  hand's  remembered  fold ; 

A  young  man's  face,  so  like,  so  like 

Our  mothers'  faces  fair : 
A  young  man's  hand,  so  firm  to  clasp, 

So  resolute  to  dare. 

1  thought  you  good  —  I  wished  you  great ; 

You  were  my  hope,  my  pride : 
To  know  you  good,  to  make  you  great 
I  once  had  happy  died. 

To  tear  the  plague-spot  from  your  heart, 

Place  honor  on  your  brow, 
See  old  age  come  in  crowned  peace  — 

I  almost  would  die  now ! 


74  COUSIN  ROBERT. 

Would  give  —  all  that 's  now  mine  to  give  - 

To  have  you  sitting  there, 
The  cousin  Robert  of  my  youth  — 

Though  beggar'd,  with  gray  hair. 

O  Robert,  Robert,  some  that  live 
Are  dead,  long  ere  they  arc  old ; 

Better  the  pure  heart  of  our  youth 
Than  palaces  of  gold ; 

Better  the  blind  faith  of  our  youth 
Than  doubt,  which  all  truth  braves ; 

Better  to  mourn,  God's  children  dear, 
Than  laugh,  the  Devil's  slaves. 

0  Robert,  Robert,  life  is  sweet, 
And  love  is  boundless  gain  : 

Yet  if  I  mind  of  you,  my  heart 
Is  stabbed  with  sudden  pain  : 

And  as  in  peace  this  Christmas  eve 

I  close  our  quiet  doors, 
And  kiss  "  good-night "  on  sleeping  Heads  - 

Such  bonnie  curls,  —  like  yours  : 

1  fall  upon  my  bended  knees 

With  sobs  that  choke  each  word ;  — 
"  On  those  who  err  and  are  deceived 
Have  mercy,  0  good  LORD  !  " 


AT  LAST. 


75 


AT   LAST. 

OWN,  down  like  a  pale  leaf  dropping 

Under  an  autumn  sky, 
My  love  dropped  into  my  bosom 
Quietly,  quietly. 


There  was  not  a  ray  of  sunshine 
And  not  a  sound  in  the  air, 

As  she  trembled  into  my  bosom  — 
My  love,  no  longer  fair. 

All  year  round  in  her  beauty 
She  dwelt  on  the  tree-top  high  : 

She  danced  in  the  summer  breezes, 
She  laughed  to  the  summer  sky. 

I  lay  so  low  in  the  grass-dews, 

She  sat  so  high  above, 
She  never  wist  of  my  longing, 

She  never  dreamed  of  my  love. 

But  when  winds  laid  bare  her  dwelling, 
And  her  heart  could  find  no  rest, 

I  called  —  and  she  fluttered  downward 
Into  my  faithful  breast. 


7 6       THE  AURORA    ON  THE  CLYDE. 

I  know  that  my  love  is  fading ; 

I  know  I  cannot  fold 
Her  fragrance  from  the  frost-blight, 

Her  beauty  from  the  mould : 

But  a  little,  little  longer 

She  shall  contented  lie, 
And  wither  away  in  the  sunshine 

Silently,  silently. 

Come  when  thou  wilt,  grim  Winter, 
My  year  is  crowned  and  blest 

If  when  my  love  is  dying 
She  die  upon  my  breast. 


THE  AURORA  ON  THE   CLYDE. 

September,  1850. 

me,  how  heavily  the  night  comes  down, 

Heavily,  heavily : 
Fade  the  curved  shores,  the  blue  hills' 

serried  throng, 
The  darkening  waves  we  oared  in  light  and  song : 
Joy  melts  from  us  as  sunshine  from  the  sky ; 

And  Patience  with  sad  eye 
Takes  up  her  staff  and  drops  her  withered  crown. 


THE  AURORA    ON  TUE   CLYDE.       77 

Our  small  boat  heaves  upon  the  heaving  river, 

Wearily,  wearily: 

The  flickering  shore-lights  come  and  go  by  fits ; 
Towering  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  dusk  silence  sits, 
Death  at  her  feet ;  above,  infinity ; 

Between,  slow  drifting  by, 
Our  tiny  boat,  like  life,  floats  onward  ever. 

Pale,  mournful  hour,  —  too  early  night  that  falls 

Drearily,  drearily, 

Come  not  so  soon  !  Return,  return,  bright  day, 
Kind  voices,  smiles,  blue  mountains,  sunny  bay ! 
In  vain  !  Life's  dial  cannot  backward  fly  : 

The  dark  time  comes.     Low  lie, 
And  listen,  soul.     Oft  in  the  night,  God  calls. 

***** 
Light,  light  on  the  black  river !     How  it  gleams, 

Solemnly,  solemnly ! 

Like  troops  of  pale  ghosts  on  their  pensive  march, 
Treading  the  far  heavens  in  a  luminous  arch, 
Each  after  each :  phantasms  serene  and  high 

From  that  eternity 

Where   all  earth's   sharpest  woes   grow  dim  as 
dreams. 

Let  us  drink  in  the  glory,  full  and  whole, 

Silently,  silently : 
Gaze,  till  it  lulls  all  pain,  all  vain  desires  :  — 


7 8       THE  AURORA    ON   THE   CLYDE. 

See  now,  that  radiant  bow  of  pillared  fires 
Spanning  the  hills  like  dawn,  until  they  lie 

In  soft  tranquillity, 
And  all  night's  ghastly  glooms  asunder  roll. 

Look,  look  again !  the  vision  changes  fast, 

Gloriously,  gloriously : 

That  was  heaven's  gate  with  its  illumined  road, 
But  this  is  heaven ;  the  very  throne  of  God 
Hung  with  flame  curtains  of  celestial  dye 

Waving  perpetually, 
While  to  and  fro  innumerous  angels  haste. 

I  see  no  more  the  stream,  the  boat  that  moves 

Mournfully,  mournfully : 
And  we  who  sit,  poor  prisoners  of  clay : 
It  is  not  night,  it  is  immortal  day, 
Where  the  One  Presence  fills  eternity, 

And  each,  His  servant  high, 
Forever  praises  and  forever  loves. 

O  soul,  forget  the  weight  that  drags  thee  down 

Deathfally,  deathfully  : 

Know  thyself.     As  this  glory  wraps  thee  round, 
Let  it  melt  off  the  chains  that  long  have  bound 
Thy  strength.   Stand  free  before  thy  God  and  cry  — 

"  My  Father,  here  am  I : 
Give  to  me  as  Thou  wilt  — first  cross,  then  crown." 


AN  AURORA  BOREALIS.  79 

AN  AURORA  BOREALIS. 

Eoslin  Castle. 

STRANGE  soft  gleam,  0  ghostly  dawn 

That  never  brightens  unto  day ; 
Ere  earth's  mirk  pale  once  more  be 

drawn 
Let  us  look  out  beyond  the  gray. 

It  is  just  midnight  by  the  clock  — 
There  is  no  sound  on  glen  or  hill, 

The  moaning  linn  adown  its  rock 

Leaps,  but  the  woods  lie  dark  and  still. 

Austere  against  the  kindling  sky 
Yon  broken  turret  blacker  grows ; 

Harsh  light,  to  show  remorselessly 
Ruins  night  hid  in  kind  repose ! 

Nay,  beauteous  light,  nay,  light  that  fills 
The  whole  heaven  like  a  dream  of  morn, 

As  waking  upon  northern  hills 

She  smiles  to  find  herself  new-born,  — 

Strange  light,  I  know  thou  wilt  not  stay, 
That  many  an  hour  must  come  and  go 


8o  AT  THE  LINN-SIDE. 

Before  the  pale  November  day 

Break  in  the  east,  forlorn  and  slow. 

Yet  blest  one  gleam  —  one  gleam  like  this, 
When  all  heaven  brightens  in  our  sight, 

And  the  long  night  that  was  and  is 
And  shall  be,  vanishes  in  light : 

O  blest  one  hour  like  this  !  to  rise 

And  see  grief's  shadows  backward  roll ; 

While  bursts  on  unaccustomed  eyes 
The  glad  Aurora  of  the  soul. 


AT   THE  LINN-SIDE. 

Roslin. 

LIVING,  living  water, 

So  busy  and  so  bright, 
Aye  flashing  in  the  morning  beams, 
And  sounding  through  the  night ; 
O  golden-shining  water  — 

Would  God  that  I  might  be 
A  vocal  message  from  His  mouth 
Into  the  world,  like  thee ! 


AT  THE  LINN-SIDE.  Si 

O  merry,  merry  water, 

Which  nothing  e'er  affrays ; 
And  as  it  pours  from  rock  to  rock 

Nothing  e'er  stops  or  stays ; 
But  past  cool  heathery  hollows 

And  gloomy  pools  it  flows ; 
Past  crags  that  fain  would  shut  it  in 

Leaps  through  —  and  on  it  goes. 

O  freshening,  sparkling  water, 

O  voice  that  'a  never  still, 
Though  winter  lays  her  dead-white  hand 

On  brae  and  glen  and  hill ; 
Though  no  leaf 's  left  to  flutter 

In  woods  all  mute  and  hoar, 
Yet  thou,  0  river,  night  and  day 

Thou  runnest  evermore. 

No  foul  thing  can  pollute  thee ; 

Thy  swiftness  casts  aside 
All  ill,  like  a  good  heart  and  true, 

However  sorely  tried. 
O  living,  living  water, 

So  fresh  and  bright  and  free  — 
God  lead  us  through  this  changeful  world 

Forever  pure,  like  thee ! 


82    A  HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 
A  HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS   MORNING. 

1855. 

^  T  is  the  Christmas  time  : 

And  up  and  down  'twixt  heaven  and 

earth, 

In  glorious  grief  and  solemn  mirth, 
The  shining  angels  climb. 

And  unto  everything 

That  lives  and  moves,  for  heaven,  on  earth, 
With  equal  share  of  grief  and  mirth, 
The  shining  angels  sing  :  — 

"  Babes  new-born,  undefiled, 
In  lowly  hut,  or  mansion  wide  — 
Sleep  safely  through  this  Christmas-tide 
When  Jesus  was  a  child. 

« 

"  O  young  men,  bold  and  free, 
In  peopled  town,  or  desert  grim, 
When  ye  are  tempted  like  to  Him, 
« The  man  Christ  Jesus '  see. 

"  Poor  mothers,  with  your  hoard 
Of  endless  love  and  countless  pain  — 


A  HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS  MORNING.    83 

Remember  all  her  grief,  her  gain, 
The  Mother  of  the  Lord. 


"Mourners,  half  blind  with  woe, 
Look  up !     One  standeth  in  this  place, 
And  by  the  pity  of  His  face 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  know. 

"  Wanderers  in  far  countrie, 

O  think  of  Him  who  came,  forgot, 

To  His  own,  and  they  received  Him  not  - 

Jesus  of  Galilee. 

"  O  all  ye  who  have  trod 
The  wine-press  of  affliction,  lay 
Your  hearts  before  His  heart  this  day  — 
Behold  the  Christ  of  God !  " 


84     A  PSALM  FOR  NEW  TEARS  EVE. 
A  PSALM  FOR  NEW  YEAR'S   EVE. 

1855. 

FRIEND  stands  at  the  door ; 
In  cither  tight-closed  hand 
Hiding  rich  gifts,  three  hundred  and 
three  score : 

Waiting  to  strew  them  daily  o'er  the  land 

Even  as  seed  the  sower. 

Each  drops  he,  treads  it  in  and  passes  by : 

It  cannot  be  made  fruitful  till  it  die. 

O  good  New  Year,  we  clasp 

This  warm  shut  hand  of  thine, 

Loosing  forever,  with  half  sigh,  half  gasp, 

That  which  from  ours  falls  like  dead  fingers'  twine : 

Ay,  whether  fierce  its  grasp 

Has  been,  or  gentle,  having  been,  we  know 

That  it  was  blessed :  let  the  Old  Year  go. 

O  New  Year,  teach  us  faith ! 

The  road  of  life  is  hard : 

When  our  feet  bleed  and  scourging  winds  us  scathe, 

Point  thou  to  Him  whose  visage  was  more  marred 

Than  any  man's  :  who  saith 


A  PSALM  FOR  NEW  YEARS  EVE.     85 

"  Make  straight  paths  for  your  feet "  —  and  to  the 

opprest  — 
"  Come  ye  to  Me,  and  I  will  give  you.  rest." 

Yet  hang  some  lamp-like  hope 

Above  this  unknown  way, 

Kind  year,  to  give  our  spirits  freer  scope 

And  our  hands  strength  to  work  while  it  is  day. 

But  if  that  way  must  slope 

Tomb  ward,  O  bring  before  our  fading  eyes 

The  lamp  of  life,  the  Hope  that  never  dies. 

Comfort  our  souls  with  love,  — 

Love  of  all  human  kind ; 

Love  special,  close  —  in  which  like  sheltered  dove 

Each  weary  heart  its  own  safe  nest  may  find ; 

And  love  that  turns  above 

Adoringly ;  contented  to  resign 

All  loves,  if  need  be,  for  the  Love  Divine. 

Friend,  come  thou  like  a  friend, 

And  whether  bright  thy  face, 

Or  dim  with  clouds  we  cannot  comprehend, — 

We  '11  hold  out  patient  hands,  each  in  his  place, 

And  trust  thee  to  the  end. 

Knowing  thou  leadest  onwards  to  those  spheres 

Where  there  are  neither  days  nor  months  nor  years. 


86        FAITHFUL  IN   VANITY-FAIR. 


FAITHFUL  IN   VANITY-FAIR. 

Suggested  by  one  of  David  Scott's  illustrations  of  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress." 

I. 

HE  great  human  whirlpool  —  't  is  seeth- 
ing and  seething : 
On !      No   time  for  shrieking  out  — 

scarcely  for  breathing : 
All  toiling  and  moiling,  some  feebler,  some  bolder, 
But  each  sees  a  fiend-face  grim  over  his  shoulder : 
Thus  merrily  live  they  in  Vanity-fair. 

The  great  human  caldron  —  it  boils  ever  higher : 
Some  drowning,  some  sinking ;  while  some,  steal- 
ing nigher 

Athirst,  come  and  lean  o'er  its  outermost  verges, 
Or  touch,  as  a  child's  feet  touch,  timorous,  the 

surges  — 

One  plunge  —  lo  !  more  souls  swamped  in  Vani- 
ty-fair. 

Let 's  live  while  we  live ;  for  to-morrow  all 's 
over: 

Drink  deep,  drunkard  bold ;  and  kiss  close,  mad- 
dened lover ; 


FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY-FAIR.         87 

Smile,  hypocrite,  smile ;  it  is  no  such  hard  labor, 
While  each  stealthy  hand  stabs  the  heart  of  his 

neighbor  — 

Faugh !    Fear  not :  we  Ve  no  hearts  in  Vanity- 
fair. 

The  mad  crowd  divides  and  then  soon  closes  after : 

Afar  towers  the  pyre.    Through  the  shouting  and 
laughter 

"  What  new  sport  is  this  ?  "  gasps  a  reveller,  half 
turning.  — 

"  One  Faithful,  meek  fool,  who  is  led  to  the  burn- 
ing, 
He  cumbered  us  sorely  in  Vanity-fair. 

"  A  dreamer,  who  held  every  man  for  a  brother ; 
A  coward,  who,  smit  on  one  cheek,  gave  the  other ; 
A  fool,  whose  blind  soul  took  as  truth  all  our  lying, 
Too  simple  to  live,  so  best  fitted  for  dying : 
Sure,  such  are  best  swept  out  of  Vanity-fair." 


II. 

SILENCE  !  though  the  flames  arise  and  quiver : 
Silence  !  though  the  crowd  howls  on  forever : 
Silence !     Through  this  fiery  purgatory 
God  is  leading  up  a  soul  to  glory. 


88         FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY-FAIR. 

See,  the  white  lips  with  no  moans  are  trembling, 
Hate  of  foes  or  plaint  of  friends'  dissembling ; 
If  sighs  come  —  his  patient  prayers  outlive  them, 
"  Lord  —  these  know  not  what  they  do.   Forgive  them  I " 

Thirstier  still  the  roaring  flames  are  glowing ; 
Fainter  in  his  ear  the  laughter  growing ; 
Brief  will  last  the  fierce  and  fiery  trial, 
Angel  welcomes  drown  the  earth  denial. 

Now  the  amorous  death-fires,  gleaming  ruddy, 
Clasp  him  close.    Down  drops  the  quivering  body, 
While  through  harmless  flames  ecstatic  flying 
Shoots  the  beauteous  soul.     This,  this  is  dying. 

Lo,  the  opening  sky  with  splendor  rifted, 
Lo,  the  palm-branch  for  his  hands  uplifted : 
Lo,  the  immortal  chariot,  cloud-descending, 
And  its  legioned  angels  close  attending. 

Let  his  poor  dust  mingle  with  the  embers 
While  the  crowds  sweep  on  and  none  remembers : 
Saints  unnumbered  through  the  Infinite  Glory, 
Praising  God,  recount  the  martyr's  story. 


HER  LIKENESS.  89 


HEE  LIKENESS. 

GIRL,  who  has  so  many  wilful  ways 
She  would   have   caused  Job's   pa- 
tience to  forsake  him ; 
Yet  is  so  rich  in  all  that 's  girlhood's 

praise, 

Did  Job  himself  upon  her  goodness  gaze, 
A  little  better  she  would  surely  make  him. 

Yet  is  this  girl  I  sing  in  naught  uncommon, 
And  very  far  from  angel  yet,  I  trow. 

Her  faults,  her  sweetnesses,  are  purely  human ; 

Yet  she 's  more  lovable  as  simple  woman 
Than  any  one  diviner  that  I  know. 

Therefore  I  wish  that  she  may  safely  keep 

This  womanhede,  and  change  not,  only  grow ; 
From  maid  to  matron,  youth  to  age,  may  creep, 
And  in  perennial  blessedness,  still  reap 

On  every  hand  of  that  which  she  doth  sow. 


9o  ONLY  A  DREAM. 

ONLY  A  DREAM. 

"  I  waked  —  she  fled :  and  day  brought  back  my  night." 

ETHOUGHT  I  saw  thee  yesternight 

Sit  by  me  in  the  olden  guise, 
The  white  robes  and  the  palm  foregone* 
Weaving  instead  of  amaranth  crown 
A  web  of  mortal  dyes. 

I  cried,  "  Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ?  " 
(The  mild  eyes  turned  and  mutely  smiled :) 

"  Why  dwellest  thou  in  far-off  lands  ? 

What  is  that  web  within  thy  hands  ?  " 
—  "I  work  for  thee,  my  child." 

I  clasped  thee  in  my  arms  and  wept ; 

I  kissed  thee  oft  with  passion  wild  : 
I  poured  fond  questions,  tender  blame ; 
Still  thy  sole  answer  was  the  same,  — 

"  I  work  for  thee,  my  child." 

"  Come  and  walk  with  me  as  of  old." 
Then  earnest  thou,  silent  as  before ; 
We  passed  along  that  churchyard  way 
We  used  to  tread  each  Sabbath  day, 
Till  one  trod  earth  no  more. 


ONLY  A  DREAM.  91 

I  felt  thy  hand  upon  my  arm, 

Beside  me  thy  meek  face  I  saw, 
Yet  through  the  sweet  familiar  grace 
A  something  spiritual  could  trace 

That  left  a  nameless  awe. 

Trembling  I  said,  "  Long  years  have  passed 
Since  thou  wert  from  my  side  beguiled ; 

Now  thou  'rt  returned  and  all  shall  be 

As  was  before."  —  Half-pensively 

Thou  answered'st  —  "  Nay,  my  child/' 

I  pleaded  sore :  "  Hadst  thou  forgot 

The  love  wherewith  we  loved  of  old,  — 
The  long  sweet  days  of  converse  blest, 
The  nights  of  slumber  on  thy  breast,  — 
Wert  thou  to  me  grown  cold  ?  " 

There  beamed  on  me  those  eyes  of  heaven 

That  wept  no  more,  but  ever  smiled ; 
"  Love  only  is  love  in  that  .Home 
Where  I  abide  —  where,  till  thou  come, 
I  work  for  thee,  my  child." 

If  from  my  sight  thou  passedst  then, 

Or  if  my  sobs  the  dream  exiled, 
I  know  not :  but  in  memory  clear 
I  seem  these  strange  words  still  to  hear, 

"  /  work  for  thee,  my  child." 


92  TO  MY  GODCHILD  ALICE. 


TO  MY   GODCHILD  ALICE. 

|JLICE,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

My  new-christened  baby  Alice, 

Can  there  ever  rhymes  be  found 
To  express  my  wishes  for  thee 
In  a  silvery  flowing,  worthy 

Of  that  silvery  sound  ? 
Bonnie  Alice,  Lady  Alice, 

Sure,  this  sweetest  name  must  be 
A  true  omen  to  thee,  Alice, 
Of  a  life's  long  melody. 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

Mayst  thou  prove  a  golden  chalice, 

Filled  with  holiness  like  wine : 
"With  rich  blessings  running  o'er 
Yet  replenished  evermore 

From  a  fount  divine  : 
Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  future  comes  to  thee, 
In  thy  young  life's  brimming  chalice 

Keep  some  drops  of  balm  for  me ! 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

Mayst  thou  grow  a  goodly  palace, 


TO  MY  GODCHILD  ALICE.  93 

Fitly  framed  from  roof  to  floors, 
Pure  unto  the  inmost  centre, 
While  high  thoughts  like  angels  enter 

At  the  open  doors : 
Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  beauteous  sight  I  see, 
In  thy  woman-heart's  wide  palace 

Keep  one  nook  of  love  for  me. 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice,  — 
Sure  the  verse  halts  out  of  malice 

To  the  thoughts  it  feebly  bears, 
And  thy  name's  soft  echoes,  ranging 
From  quaint  rhyme  to  rhyme,  are  changing 

Into  silent  prayers. 
God  be  with  thee,  little  Alice, 

Of  His  bounteousness  may  Ho 
Fill  the  chalice,  build  the  palace, 

Here,  unto  eternity ! 


EIGHTEEN    SONNETS. 


RESIGNING. 

"Poor  heart, 'what  bitter  words  we  speak 
When  God  speaks  of  resigning  ! " 

HELD  REN,  that  lay  their  pretty  gar- 
lands by 

So  piteously,  yet  with  a  humble  mind ; 

Sailors,  who,  when  their  ship  rocks  in 

the  wind, 

Cast  out  her  freight  with  half-averted  eye, 
Riches  for  life  exchanging  solemnly, 
Lest  they  should  never  gain  the  wished-for  shore ;  — 
Thus  we,  O  Father,  standing  Thee  before, 
Do  lay  down  at  Thy  feet  without  a  sigh 
Each  after  each  our  precious  things  and  rare, 
Our  dear  heart-jewels  and  our  garlands  fair. 
Perhaps  Thou  knewest  that  the  flowers  would  die, 
And  the  long-voyaged  hoards  be  found  but  dust  : 
So  took'st  them,  while  unchanged.  To  Thee  we  trust 
For  incorruptible  treasure :  Thou  art  just. 


SONNETS.  95 


SAINT   ELIZABETH   OF  BOHEMIA. 

"  Would  that  we  two  were  lying 
Beneath  the  churchyard  sod, 
With  our  limbs  at  rest  in  the  green  earth's  breast, 
And  our  souls  at  home  with  God." 

KINGSLEY'S  Saint's  Tragedy. 

I. 

NEVER  lay  me  down  to  sleep  at  night 
But  in  my  heart  I  sing  that  little  song  : 
The  angels  hear  it  as,  a  pitying  throng, 
They  touch  my  burning  lids  with  fin- 
gers bright 

As  moonbeams,  pale,  impalpable,  and  light : 
And  when  my  daily  pious  tasks  are  done, 
And  all  rny  patient  prayers  said  one  by  one, 
God  hears  it.     Seems  it  sinful  in  His  sight 
That  round  my  slow  burnt-offering  of  quenched 

will 

One  quivering  human  sigh  creeps  wind-like  still  ? 
That  when  my  orisons  celestial  fail 
Rises  one  note  of  natural  human  wail  ? 
Dear  lord,  spouse,  hero,  martyr,  saint !  erelong, 
I  trust,  God  will  forgive  my  singing  that  poor  song. 


96  SONNETS. 


II. 

A  TEAR  ago  I  bade  my  little  son 
Bear  upon  pilgrimage  a  heavy  load 
Of  alms  ;  he  cried,  half-fainting  on  the  road, 
"Mother,  O  mother,  would  the  day  were  done  !" 
Him  I  reproved  with  tears,  and  said,  "  Go  on ! 
Nor  pause  nor  murmur  till  thy  task  be  o'er."  — 
Would  not  God  say  to  me  the  same,  and  more? 
I  will  not  sing  that  song.     Thou,  dearest  one, 
Husband  —  no,   brother!  —  stretch   thy   steadfast 

hand 

And  let  mine  grasp  it.     Now,  I  also  stand, 
My  woman  weakness  nerved  to  strength  like  thine ; 
We  '11  quaff  life's  aloe-cup  as  if  't  were  wine 
Each  to  the  other ;  journeying  on  apart, 
Till  at  heaven's  golden  doors  we  two  leap  heart  to 

heart. 


SONNETS.  97 

A  MARRIAGE-TABLE. 
W.  H.  L.  and  F.  R. 

J|HERE  was  a  marriage-table  where  One 

sate, 
Haply,  unnoticed,  till  they  craved  His 

aid: 

Thenceforward  does  it  seem  that  He  has  made 
All  virtuous  marriage-tables  consecrate : 
And  so,  at  this,  where  without  pomp  or  state 
We  sit,  and  only  say,  or  mute,  are  fain 
To  wish   the    simple  words   "  God   bless   these 

twain ! " 

I  think  that  He  who  "  in  the  midst "  doth  wait 
Oft-times,  would  not  abjure  our  prayerful  cheer, 
But,  as  at  Cana,  list  with  gracious  ear 
To  us,  beseeching,  that  the  Love  divine 
May  ever  at  their  household  table  sit, 
Make  all  His  servants  who  encompass  it, 
And  change  life's  bitterest  waters  into  wine. 


9g  SONNETS. 

MICHAEL  THE  ARCHANGEL. 

A  Statuette. 


white   archangel,  with  thy  steadfast 

eyes 
Beholding  all  this  empty  ghost-filled 

room, 

Thy  clasped  hands  resting  on  the  sword  of  doom, 
Thy  firm,  close  lips,  not  made  for  human  sighs 
Or  smiles,  or  kisses  sweet,  or  bitter  cries, 
But  for  divine  exhorting,  holy  song 
And  righteous  counsel,  bold  from  seraph  tongue. 
Beautiful  angel,  strong  as  thou  art  wise, 
Would  that   the   sight  of  thee  made  wise   and 

strong ! 
Would  that  this  sheathed  sword  of  thine,  which 

lies 

Stonily  idle,  could  gleam  out  among 
The  spiritual  hosts  of  enemies 
That  tempting  shriek  —  "  Requite  thou  wrong  with 

wrong." 
Lama  Sabachthani,  —  How  long,  how  long. 


SONNETS.  99 


n. 


MICHAEL,  the  leader  of  the  hosts  of  God, 
Who  warred  with  Satan  for  the  body  of  him 
Whom,  living,  God  had  loved  —  If  cherubim 
With  cherubim  contended  for  one  clod 
Of  human  dust,  for  forty  years  that  trod 
The  gloomy  desert  of  Heaven's  chastisement, 
Are  there  not  ministering  angels  sent 
To  battle  with  the  devils  that  roam  abroad, 
Clutching  our  living  souls  ?     "  The  living,  still 
The  living,  they  shall  praise  Thee  1 "  —  Let  some 

great 

Invisible  spirit  enter  in  and  fill 
The  howling  chambers  of  hearts  desolate ; 
With  looks  like  thine,  O  Michael,  strong  and  wise, 
My  white  archangel  with  the  steadfast  eyes. 


SONNETS. 


BEATEICE   TO   DANTE. 

"  Guardami  ben.    Ben  son,  ben  son."  * 

REGARD  me  well :  I  am  thy  love,  thy 

love; 
Thy  blessing,  thy  delight,  thy  hope, 

thy  peace : 

Thy  joy  above  all  joys  that  break  and  cease 
When  their  full  waves  in  widest  circles  move : 
Thy  bird  of  comfort,  thine  eternal  dove, 
Whom  thou  didst  send  out  of  thy  mournful  breast 
To  flutter  back  and  point  thee  to  thy  rest : 
Thine  angel,  who  forgets  her  crown  star-wove 
To  come  to  thee  with  folded  woman-hands 
Pleading,  —  "  Look  on  me,  Beatrice,  who  stands 
Before  thee ;  by  the  Triune  Light  divine 
Undazzled,  still  beholds  thy  human  face, 
And  is  more  happy  in  this  happy  place 
That  thou  alone  art  hers  and  she  is  thine." 

*  Suggested  by  a  statue  of  Beatrice,  bearing  this  motto. 


SONNETS.  101 

DANTE   TO   BEATRICE. 

II. 

I  SEE  thee,  gliding  towards  me  with  slow  pace 

Across  the  azure  fields  of  Paradise, 

Where  thine  each  footstep  makes  a  star  arise. 

So  from  this  heart's  once  void  but  infinite  space 

Each  strange  sweet  touch  of  thy  celestial  grace 

In  the  old  mortal  life,  struck  out  some  spark 

To  light  the  world,  though  all  my  heaven  lay  dark. 

0  Beatrice,  cypresses  enlace 

My  laurels  :  none  have  grown  save  tear-bedewed  — 
Salt  tears  that  sank  into  the  earth  unviewed, 
And  sprang  up  green  to  form  a  crown  of  bays. 
Take  it !     At  thy  dear  feet  I  lay  my  all, 
What  men  my  honors,  virtues,  glories,  call : 

1  lived,  loved,  suffered,  sung — for  thy  sole  praise. 


SONNETS. 

A   QUESTION. 
I. 


jjOUL,  spirit,  genius  —  which  thou  art  — 

that  whence 

I  know  not,  rose  upon  this  mortal  frame 
Like  the  sun  o'er  the  mountains,  all 

aflame, 

Seen  large  through  mists  of  childish  innocence, 
And  year  by  year  with  me  uptravelling  thence, 
As  hour  by  hour  the  day-star,  madest  aspire 
My  nature,  interpenetrate  with  fire 
It  felt  but  understood  not  —  strong,  intense, 
Wisdom  with  folly  mixed,  and  gold  with  clay;  — 
Soul,  thou  hast  journeyed  with  me  all  this  way. 
Oft  hidden  and  o'erclouded,  oft  arrayed 
In  scorching  splendors  that  my  earth-life  burned, 
Yet  ever  unto  thee  my  true  life  turned, 
For,  dim,  or  clear,  't  was  thou  my  daylight  made. 


SONNETS.  103 


II. 


SOUL,  dwelling  oft  in  God's  infinitude, 
And  sometimes  seeming  no  more  part  of  me  — 
This  me,  worms'  heritage  —  than  that  sun  can  be 
Part  of  the  earth  he  has  with  warmth  imbued,  — 
Whence  earnest  thou?    whither  goest  thou?    I, 

subdued 

With  awe  of  mine  own  being  —  thus  sit  still, 
Dumb,  on  the  summit  of  this  lonely  hill, 
Whose  dry  November-grasses  dew-bestrewed 
Mirror  a  million  suns  —  That  sun,  so  bright, 
Passes,  as  thou  must  pass,  Soul,  into  night : 
Art  thou  afraid,  who  solitary  hast  trod 
A  path  I  know  not,  from  a  source  to  a  bourne, 
Both  which  I  know  not  ?  fear'st  thou  to  return 
Alone,  even  as  thou  earnest,  alone,  to  God  ? 


104  SONNETS. 


ANGEL   FACES. 

"  And  with  the  dawn  those  angel  faces  smile 
That  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile." 

I. 

SHALL  not  paint  them.     God  them 
sees,  and  I : 

No  other  can,  nor  need.    They  have  no 

form, 

I  may  not  close  with  human  kisses  warm 
Their  eyes  which  shine  afar  or  from  on  high, 
But  never  will  shine  nearer  till  I  die. 
How  long,  how  long !     See,  I  am  growing  old ; 
I  have  quite  ceased  to  note  in  my  hair's  fold 
The  silver  threads  that  there  in  ambush  lie ; 
Some  angel  faces  bent  from  heaven  would  pine 
To  trace  the  sharp  lines  graven  upon  mine ; 
What  matter  ?  in  the  wrinkles  ploughed  by  care 
Let  age  tread  after,  sowing  immortal  seeds ; 
All  this  life's  harvest  yielded,  wheat  or  weeds, 
Is  reaped,  methinks :  at  last  my  little  field  lies  bare. 


SONNETS.  105 


II. 


BUT  in  the  night  time,  'twixt  it  and  the  stars, 
The  angel  faces  still  come  glimmering  by ; 
No  death-pale  shadow,  no  averted  eye 
Marking  the  inevitable  doom  that  bars 
Me  from  them.     Not  a  cloud  their  aspect  mars  ; 
And  my  sick  spirit  walks  with  them  hand  in  hand 
By  the  cool  waters  of  a  pleasant  land  : 
Sings  with  them  o'er  again,  without  its  jars, 
The  psalm  of  life,  that  ceased,  as  one  by  one 
Their  voices,  dropping  off,  left  mine  alone 
With  dull  monotonous  wail  to  grieve  the  air. 

0  solitary  love,  that  art  so  strong, 

1  think  God  will  have  pity  on  thee  erelong, 

And   take  thee  where  thou'lt  find  those  angel 
faces  fair. 


106  SONNETS. 


SUNDAY    MORNING    BELLS. 

jjROM  the  near  city  comes  the  clang  of 

bells  : 
Their   hundred  jarring   diverse    tones 

combine 

In  one  faint  misty  harmony,  as  fine 
As  the  soft  note  yon  winter  robin  swells.  — 
What  if  to  Thee  in  Thine  Infinity 
These  multiform  and  many-colored  creeds 
Seem  but  the  robe  man  wraps  as  masquers'  weeds 
Round  the  one  living  truth  Thou  givest  him  — 

Thee  ? 

What  if  these  varied  forms  that  worship  prove, 
Being  heart-worship,  reach  Thy  perfect  ear 
But  as  a  monotone,  complete  and  clear, 
Of  which  the  music  is,  through  Christ's  name, 

Love  ? 

Forever  rising  in  sublime  increase 
To  "  Glory  in  the  Highest,  —  on  earth  peace  ? " 


SONNETS. 


107 


CCEUR    DE    LION: 

Marochetti's  Statue  in  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851. 
I. 

RICHARD    the    Lion-hearted,   crowned 
serene 

With  the  true  royalty  of  perfect  man  ; 

Seated  in  stone  above  the  praise  or  ban 
Of  these  mixed  crowds  who  come  and  gaping  lean 
As  if  to  see  what  the  word  "  king "  might  mean 
In  those  old  times.     Behold  !  what  need  that  rim 
Of  crown  'gainst  this  blue  sky,  to  signal  him 
A  monarch,  of  the  monarchs  that  have  been, 
And,  perhaps,  are  not  ?  —  Read  his  destinies 
In  the  full  brow  o'er-arching  kingly  eyes, 
In   the   strong   hands,   grasping    both  rein   and 

sword, 

In  the  close  mouth,  so  sternly  beautiful :  — 
Surely,  a  man  who  his  own  spirit  can  rule ; 
Lord  of  himself,  therefore  his  brethren's  lord. 


io8  SONNETS. 


II. 


"  0  Richard,  0  mon  roi."     So  minstrels  sighed. 
The  many-cen tuned  voice  dies  fast  away 
Amidst  the  turmoil  of  our  modern  day. 
How  know  we  but  these  green-wreathed  legends 

hide 

An  ugly  truth  that  never  could  abide 
In  this  our  living  world's  far  purer  air  ?  — 
Nevertheless,  O  statue,  rest  thou  there, 
Our  Richard,  of  all  chivalry  the  pride ; 
Or  if  not  the  true  Richard,  still  a  type 
Of  the  old  regal  glory,  fallen,  o'er-ripe, 
And  giving  place  to  better  blossoming  : 
Stand  —  imaging  the  grand  heroic  days  ; 
And  let  our  little  children  come  and  gaze, 
Whispering  with  innocent  awe  —  "  This  was  a 

King." 


SONNETS.  109 

GUNS    OF   PEACE. 

Sunday  Night,  March  30th,  1856. 

i]HOSTS  of  dead  soldiers  in  the  battle 

slain, 

Ghosts  of  dead  heroes  dying  nobler  far, 
In  the  long  patience  of  inglorious  war, 
Of  famine,  cold,  heat,  pestilence,  and  pain,  — 
All  ye  whose  loss  makes  our  victorious  gain  — 
This  quiet  night,  as  sounds  the  cannon's  tongue, 
Bo  ye  look  down  the  trembling  stars  among 
Viewing  our  peace  and  war  with  like  disdain  ? 
Or  wiser  grown  since  reaching  those  new  spheres, 
Smile  ye  on  those  poor  bones  ye  sowed  as  seed 
For  this  our  harvest,  nor  regret  the  deed  ?  — 
Yet  lift  one  cry  with  us  to  Heavenly  ears  — 
"  Strike  with  Thy  bolt  the  next  red  flag  unfurled, 
And  make  all  wars   to   cease    throughout    the 
world." 


no  SONNETS. 

DAVID'S   CHILD. 

—  "  Is  the  child  dead  ? »  —  And  they  said,  "  He  is  dead." 

r]N  face  of  a  great  sorrow  like  to  death 
How  do  we  wrestle  night  and  day  with 

tears; 
How  do  we  fast  and  pray ;  how  small 

appears 

The  outside  world,  while,  hanging  on  some  breath 
Of  fragile  hope,  the  chamber  where  we  lie 
Includes  all  space.  — But  if  sudden  at  last 
The  blow  falls ;  or  by  incredulity 
Fond  led,  we  —  never  having  one  thought  cast 
Towards  years  where  "the  child"  was  not  —  see 

it  die, 

And  with  it  all  our  future,  all  our  past,  — 
We  just  look  round  us  with  a  dull  surprise : 
For  lesser  pangs  we  had  filled  earth  with  cries 
Of  wild  and  angry  grief  that  would  be  heard  :  — 
But  when  the  heart  is  broken  —  not  a  word. 


SONNETS. 


A  WORD  IN   SEASON. 

j|HIS  is  a  day  the  Lord  hath  made."  — 

Thus  spake 
The  good  religious   heart,  unstained, 

unworn, 

Watching  the  golden  glory  of  the  morn.  — 
Since,  on  each  happy  day  that  came  to  break 
Like  sunlight  o'er  this  silent  life  of  mine, 
Yea,  on  each  beauteous  morning  I  saw  shine, 
I  have  remembered  these  your  words,  rejoiced 
And  been  glad  in  it.     So,  o'er  many-voiced 
Tumultuous  harmonies  of  tropic  seas, 
Which  chant  an  everlasting  farewell  grand 
Between  ourselves  and  you  and  the  old  land, 
Receive  this  token :  many  words  chance-sown 
May  oftentimes  have  taken  root  and  grown, 
To  bear  good  fruit  perennially,  like  these. 


H2    THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE   SNOW. 

JjARE  and  sunshiny,  bright  and  bleak, 
Rounded  cold  as  a  dead  maid's  cheek, 
Folded  white  as  a  sinner's  shroud, 
Or  wandering  angel's  robes  of  cloud.  — 
Well  I  know,  well  I  know 
Over  the  fields  the  path  through  the  snow. 

Narrow  and  rough  it  lies  between 

Wastes  where  the  wind  sweeps,  biting  keen : 

Every  step  of  the  slippery  road 

Marks  where  some  weary  foot  has  trod ; 

Who  '11  go,  who  '11  go 
After  the  rest  on  the  path  through  the  snow  ? 

They  who  would  tread  it  must  walk  alone, 
Silent  and  steadfast  —  one  by  one : 
Dearest  to  dearest  can  only  say, 
"  My  heart !  I  '11  follow  thee  all  the  way, 

As  we  go,  as  we  go, 
Each  after  each  on  this  path  through  the  snow." 

It  may  be  under  that  western  haze 
Lurks  the  omen  of  brighter  days ; 
That  each  sentinel  tree  is  quivering 
Deep  at  its  core  with  the  sap  of  spring, 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE   CORN.  113 

And  while  we  go,  while  we  go, 
Green  grass-blades  pierce  thro'  the  glittering  snow. 

It  may  be  the  unknown  path  will  tend 
Never  to  any  earthly  end, 
Die  with  the  dying  day  obscure, 
And  never  lead  to  a  human  door : 
That  none  know  who  did  go 
Patiently  once  on  this  path  through  the  snow. 

No  matter,  no  matter !  the  path  shines  plain ; 
These  pure  snow-crystals  will  deaden  pain ; 
Above,  like  stars  in  the  deep  blue  dark, 
Eyes  that  love  us  look  down  and  mark. 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go, 
Whither  heaven  leads  in  the  path  thro'  the  snow. 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  COKN. 

IJAVY  and  bright  in  the  summer  air, 
Like   a  pleasant   sea  when  the  wind 

blows  fair, 
And  its  roughest  breath  has  scarcely 

curled 
The  green  highway  to  a  distant  world,  — 


ii4  THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  CORN. 

Soft  whispers  passing  from  shore  to  shore, 
As  from  hearts  content,  yet  desiring  more  — 

Who  feels  forlorn, 

Wandering    thus   down  the    path    through   the 
corn? 

A  short  space  since,  and  the  dead  leaves  lay 
Mouldering  under  the  hedgerow  gray, 
Nor  hum  of  insect,  nor  voice  of  bird, 
O'er  the  desolate  field  was  ever  heard ; 
Only  at  eve  the  pallid  snow 
Blushed  rose-red  in  the  red  sun-glow ; 

Till,  one  blest  morn, 
Shot  up  into  life  the  young  green  corn. 

Small  and  feeble,  slender  and  pale, 

It  bent  its  head  to  the  winter  gale, 

Hearkened  the  wren's  soft  note  of  cheer, 

Hardly  believing  spring  was  near  : 

Saw  chestnuts  bud  out  and  campions  blow, 

And  daisies  mimic  the  vanished  snow 

Where  it  was  born, 
On  either  side  of  the  path  through  the  corn. 

The  corn,  the  corn,  the  beautiful  corn, 
Rising  wonderful,  morn  by  morn  : 
First,  scarce  as  high  as  a  fairy's  wand, 
Then,  just  in  reach  of  a  child's  wee  hand ; 


THE  GOOD    OF  IT.  115 

Then  growing,  growing,  tall,  brave,  and  strong  : 
With  the  voice  of  new  harvests  in  its  song  ; 

While  in  fond  scorn 
The  lark  out-carols  the  whispering  corn. 

A  strange,  sweet  path,  formed  day  by  day, 

How,  when,  and  wherefore,  we  cannot  say, 

No  more  than  of  our  life-paths  we  know, 

Whither  they  lead  us,  why  we  go  ; 

Or  whether  our  eyes  shall  ever  see 

The  wheat  in  the  car  or  the  fruit  on  the  tree ; 

Yet,  who  Js  forlorn  ?  — 
He  who  watered  the  furrows  can  ripen  the  corn. 


THE  GOOD   OF  IT. 

A  Cynic's  Song. 

men  strut  proudly,  all  purple  and 
gold, 
Hiding  queer  deeds  'neath  a  cloak 

of  good  fame ; 
I  creep  along,  braving  hunger  and  cold, 

To  keep  my  heart  stainless  as  well  as  my  name ; 
So,  so,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 


n6  THE  GOOD   OF  IT. 

Some  clothe  bare  Truth  in  fine  garments  of  words, 

Fetter  her  free  limbs  with  cumbersome  state  : 
With  me,  let  me  sit  at  the  lordliest  boards, 

"  I  love  "  means  /  love,  and  "  I  hate  "  means 

I  hate, 
But,  but,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 

Some  have  rich  dainties  and  costly  attire, 

Guests  fluttering  round  them  and  duns  at  the 

door : 

I  crouch  alone  at  my  plain  board  and  fire, 
Enjoy  what  I  pay  for  and  scorn  to  have  more. 
Yet,  yet,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 

Some  gather  round  them  a  phalanx  of  friends, 

Scattering  affection  like  coin  in  a  crowd ; 
I  keep  my  heart  for  the  few  that  heaven  sends, 
Where  they  '11  find  their  names  writ  when  I  lie 

in  my  shroud. 
Still,  still,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 

Some  toy  with  love,  lightly  come,  lightly  go, 
A   blithe   game   at   hearts,  little  worth,  little 

cost : — 

I  staked  my  whole  soul  on  one  desperate  throw, 
A  life  'gainst  an  hour's  sport.     We  played ; 

and  I  —  lost. 
Ha,  ha,  such  was  the  good  of  it ! 


MINE.  II7 

MORAL:    ADDED  ON  HIS  DEATH-BED. 

TURN  the  Past's  mirror  backward.     Its  shadows 

removed, 

The  dim  confused  mass  becomes  softened,  sub- 
lime : 
I  have  worked  —  I  have  felt  —  I  have  lived  —  I 

have  loved, 
And  each  was  a  step  towards  the  goal  I  now 

climb  : 
Thou,  God,  Thou  sawest  the  good  of  it. 


MINE. 

For  a  German  Air. 

HOW  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name 

I  keep  repeating, 
And  I  drink  up  joy  like  wine  : 
0  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name 

I  keep  repeating, 
For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine  ! 
She 's  rich,  she 's  fair,  beyond  compare, 
Of  noble  mind,  serene  and  kind  — 


ji8       A   GHOST  AT  THE  DANCING. 

And  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I  keep 

repeating, 
For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine  ! 

O  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I  keep 

repeating, 

In  a  music  soft  and  fine  ; 
O  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I  keep 

repeating, 

For  the  girl  I  love  is  mine. 
She  owns  no  lands,  has  no  white  hands, 
Her  lot  is  poor,  her  life  obscure ;  — 
Yet  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I  keep 

repeating, 
For  the  girl  I  love  is  mine  ! 


A  GHOST  AT  THE  DANCING. 

WIND-SWEPT  tulip-bed  — a  colored 

cloud 

Of  butterflies  careering  in  the  air  — 
A  many-figured  arras  stirred  to  life, 
And  merry  unto  midnight  music  dumb  — 
So  the  dance  whirls.     Do  any  think  of  thee, 
Amiel,  Amiel  ? 


A   GHOST  AT  THE  DANCING.       119 

Friends  greet  each  other  —  countless  rills  of  talk 
Meander  round,  scattering  a  spray  of  smiles. 
Surely  —  the  news  was  false.     One  minute  more 
And  thou  wilt  stand  here,  tall  and  quiet-eyed, 
Shakespearian  beauty  in  thy  pensive  face, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 

Many  here  knew  and  loved  thee  —  I  nor  loved, 
Scarce  knew  —  yet  in  thy  place  a  shadow  glides, 
And  a  face  shapes  itself  from  empty  air, 
Watching  the  dancers,  grave  and  quiet-eyed  — 
Eyes  that  now  see  the  angels  evermore, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 

On  just  such  night  as  this,  'midst  dance  and  song, 

I  bade  thee  carelessly  a  light  good  by  — 

"  Good  by  "  —  saidst  thou ;    "  A  happy  journey 

home ! " 

Was  the  unseen  death-angel  at  thy  side, 
Mocking  those  words  —  "  A  happy  journey  home" 
Amiel,  Amiel  ? 

Ay,  we  play  fool's  play  still ;  thou  hast  gone  home. 
While  these  dance  here,  a  mile  hence  o'er  thy 

grave 
Drifts  the  deep  New  Year  snow.     The  wondrous 

gate 
We  spoke  of,  thou  hast  entered ;  I  without 


120  MY  CHRISTIAN  NAME. 

Grope  ignorant  still  —  thou  dost  its  secrets  know, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 

What  if,  thus  sitting  where  we  sat  last  year, 
Thou  earnest,  took'st  up  our  broken  thread  of  talk, 
And  told'st  of  that  new  Home,  which  far  I  view, 
As  children,  wandering  on  through  wintry  fields, 
Mark  on  the  hill  the  father's  window  shine, 
Amiel,  Amiel  ? 

No.     We  shall  see  thy  pleasant  face  no  more  ; 
Thy  words  on  earth  are  ended.     Yet  thou  livest ; 
'T  is  we  who  die.  —  I  too,  one  day  shall  come, 
And,  unseen,  watch  these  shadows,  quiet-eyed  — 
Then  flit  back  to  thy  land,  the  living  land, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 


MY   CHRISTIAN  NAME. 

Y  Christian  name,  my  Christian  name, 

I  never  hear  it  now  : 
None  have  the  right  to  utter  it, 
'T  is  lost,  I  scarce  know  how. 
My  worldly  name  the  world  speaks  loud  ; 
Thank  God  for  well-earned  fame  ! 


MY  CHRISTIAN  NAME. 

But  silence  sits  at  my  cold  hearth,  — 
I  have  no  household  name. 

My  Christian  name,  my  Christian  name, 

It  has  an  uncouth  sound  ; 
My  mother  chose  it  out  of  those 

In  Bible  pages  found  : 
Mother,  whose  accents  made  half  sweet 

What  else  I  held  in  shame, 
Dost  thou  remember  up  in  heaven 

My  poor  lost  Christian  name  ? 

Brothers  and  sisters,  mockers  oft 

Of  the  quaint  name  I  bore, 
Would  I  could  leap  back  years,  to  hear 

Ye  shout  it  out  once  more  ! 
One  speaks  it  still,  in  written  lines, 

The  last  fraternal  claim  : 
But  the  wide  seas  between  us  drown 

Its  sound  —  my  Christian  name. 

I  had  a  long  dream  once.     Her  voice 

Might  breathe  the  homely  word, 
And  make  it  music  —  as  love  makes 

Any  name,  said  or  heard. 
O,  dumb,  dumb  lips  !  —  O,  silent  heart ! 

Though  it  is  no  one's  blame  : 
Now  while  I  live  I  '11  never  hear 

Her  speak  my  Christian  name. 


A  DEAD  BABY. 

God  send  her  bliss,  and  send  me  rest ! 

If  her  white  footsteps  calm 
Should  track  my  bleeding  feet,  God  make 

To  them  each  blood-drop  balm  ! 
Peace  —  peace.     O  mother,  put  thou  forth 

Thine  elder,  holier  claim, 
And  the  first  word  I  hear  in  heaven 

May  be  my  Christian  name. 


A  DEAD   BABY. 

ITTLE  soul,  for  such  brief  space  that 

entered 

In  this  little  body  straight  and  chilly, 
Little  life  that  fluttered  and  departed, 

Like  a  moth  from  an  unopened  lily, 
Little  being,  without  name  or  nation, 
Where  is  now  thy  place  among  creation  ? 

Little  dark-lashed  eyes,  unclosed  never, 
Little  mouth,  by  earthly  food  ne'er  tainted, 

Little  breast,  that  just  once  heaved,  and  settled 
In  eternal  slumber,  white  and  sainted,  — 

Child,  shall  I  in  future  children's  faces 

See  some  pretty  look  that  thine  retraces  ? 


A  DEAD  BABY. 


123 


Is  this  thrill  that  strikes  across  my  heart-strings 
And  in  dew  beneath  my  eyelid  gathers, 

Token  of  the  bliss  thou  mightst  have  brought  me, 
Dawning  of  the  love  they  call  a  father's  ? 

Do  I  hear  through  this  still  room  a  sighing 

Like  thy  spirit  to  me  its  author  crying/? 

Whence  didst  come  and  whither  take  thy  journey, 
Little  soul,  of  me  and  mine  created  ? 

Must  thou  lose  us,  and  we  thee,  forever, 
O  strange  life,  by  minutes  only  dated  ? 

Or  new  flesh  assuming,  just  to  prove  us, 

In  some  other  babe  return  and  love  us  ? 

Idle  questions  all :  yet  our  beginning 

Like  our  ending,  rests  with  the  Life-sender, 

With  whom  naught  is  lost,  and  naught  spent 

vainly : 
Unto  Him  this  little  one  I  render. 

Hide  the  face  —  the  tiny  coffin  cover  : 

So,  our  first  dream,  our  first  hope  —  is  over. 


124  FOR  MUSIC. 


FOR   MUSIC. 

LONG  the  shore,  along  the  shore 

I  see  the  wavelets  meeting  : 
But  thee  I  see  —  ah,  never  more, 
For  all  my  wild  heart's  beating. 
The  little  wavelets  come  and  go, 
The  tide  of  life  ebbs  to  and  fro, 

Advancing  and  retreating : 
But  from  the  shore,  the  steadfast  shore, 

The  sea  is  parted  never  : 
And  mine  I  hold  thee  evermore, 
Forever  and  forever. 

Along  the  shore,  along  the  shore, 

I  hear  the  waves  resounding, 
But  thou  wilt  cross  them  nevermore 

For  all  my  wild  heart's  bounding  : 
The  moon  comes  out  above  the  tide 
And  quiets  all  the  billows  wide 

Her  pathway  bright  surrounding  : 
Thus  on  the  shore,  the  dreary  shore, 

I  walk  with  weak  endeavor ; 
I  have  thy  love's  light  evermore, 

Forever  and  forever. 


THE   CANARY  IN  HIS   CAGE        125 


THE    CANARY  IN  HIS    CAGE. 


away,  ay,  sing  away, 
Merry  little  bird, 
Always  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Though  a  woodland  roundelay 
You  ne'er  sung  nor  heard  ; 
Though  your  life  from  youth  to  age 
Passes  in  a  narrow  cage. 

Near  the  window  wild  birds  fly, 

Trees  are  waving  round  : 
Fair  things  everywhere  you  spy 
Through  the  glass  pane's  mystery, 

Your  small  life's  small  bound  : 
Nothing  hinders  your  desire 
But  a  little  gilded  wire. 

Like  a  human  soul  you  seem 

Shut  in  golden  bars  : 
Placed  amidst  earth's  sunshine-stream, 
Singing  to  the  morning  beam, 

Dreaming  'neath  the  stars  ; 
Seeing  all  life's  pleasures  clear,  — 
But  they  never  can  come  near. 


126        THE   CANARY  IN  HIS   CAGE. 

Never !     Sing,  bird-poet  mine, 

As  most  poets  do  ;  — 
Guessing  by  an  instinct  fine 
At  some  happiness  divine 

Which  they  never  knew. 
Lonely  in  a  prison  bright 
Hymning  for  the  world's  delight. 

Yet,  my  birdie,  you  're  content 

In  your  tiny  cage  : 
Not  a  carol  thence  is  sent 
But  for  happiness  is  meant  — 

Wisdom  pure  as  sage  : 
Teaching,  the  true  poet's  part 
Is  to  sing  with  merry  heart. 

So,  lie  down  thou  peevish  pen, 
Eyes,  shake  off  all  tears ; 

And  my  wee  bird,  sing  again : 

I  '11  translate  your  song  to  men 
In  these  future  years. 

"  Howsoe'er  thy  lot 's  assigned, 
Bear  it  with  a  cheerful  mind." 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY.    127 
CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 

AN  OLD  MAN'S   CONFESSION. 

gHE  has  a  large  still  heart  —  this  lady  of 

mine, 
(Not  mine,  i'  faith !  nor  would  I  that 

she  were :) 

She  walks  this  world  of  ours  like  Grecian  nymph, 
Pure  with  a  marble  pureness,  moving  on 
Among  the  herd  of  men,  environed  round 
With  native  airs  of  deep  Olympian  calm. 
I  have  a  great  love  for  that  lady  of  mine : 
I  like  to  watch  her  motions,  trick  of  face, 
And  turn  of  thought,  when  speaking  high  and  wise 
The  tongue  of  gods,  not  men.     Ay,  every  day, 
And  twenty  times  a  day,  I  start  to  catch 
Some  look  or  gesture  of  familiar  mould, 
And  then  my  panting  soul  leans  forth  to  her 
Like  some  sick  traveller  who  astonied  sees 
Gliding  across  the  distant  twilight  fields  — 
His  lovely,  lost,  beloved  memory-fields  — 
The  shadowy  people  of  an  earlier  world. 
I  have  a  friend,  how  dearly  liked,  heart-warm, 
Did  I  confess,  sure  she  and  all  would  smile : 
I  watch  her  as  she  steals  in  some  dull  room 


128     CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 

That  brightens  at  her  entrance  —  slow  lets  fall 

A  word  or  two  of  wise  simplicity, 

Then  goes,  and  at  her  going  all  seems  dark. 

Little  she  knows  this  :  little  thinks  each  brow 

Lightens,  each  heart  grows  purer  with  her  eyes, 

Good,  honest  eyes  —  clear,  upward,  righteous  eyes, 

That  look  as  if  they  saw  the  dim  unseen, 

And  learnt  from  thence  their  deep  compassionate 

calm. 

Why  do  I  precious  hold  this  friend  of  mine  ? 
Why  in  our  talks,  our  quiet  fireside  talks, 
When  we,  two  earnest  travellers  through  the  dark, 
Grasp  at  the  guiding  threads  that  homeward  lead, 
Seems  it  another  soul  than  hers  looks  out 
From  these  her  eyes  ?  —  until  I  ofttimes  start 
And  quiver,  as  when  some  soft  ignorant  hand 
Touches  the  barb  hid  in  a  long-healed  wound. 
Yet  still  no  blame,  but  thanks  to  thee,  dear  friend, 
Ay,  even  when  we  wander  back  at  eve, 
Thy  careless  arm  loose  linked  within  my  own  — 
The  same  height  as  I  gaze  down  —  nay,  the  hair 
Her  very  color  —  fluttering  'neath  the  stars  — 
The  same  large  stars  which  lit  that  earlier  world. 
I  have  another  love  —  whose  dewy  looks 
Are  fresh  with  life's  young  dawn.     I  prophesy 
The  streak  of  light  now  trembling  on  the  hills 
Will  broaden  out  into  a  glorious  day. 
Thou  sweet  one,  meek  as  good,  and  good  as  fair, 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY.    129 

Wise  as  a  woman,  harmless  as  a  child, 
I  love  thee  well !     And  yet  not  thee,  not  thee, 
God  knows — they  know  who  sit  among  the  stars. 
As  one  whose  sun  was  darkened  before  noon, 
Creeps  patiently  along  the  twilight  lands, 
Sees  glow-worms,  meteors,  or  tapers  kind 
Of  an  hour's  burning,  stops  awhile  to  mark, 
Thanks  heaven  for  them,  but  never  calls  them 

day  — 

So  love  I  these,  and  more.     Yet  thou,  my  sun, 
Who  rose,  leaped  to  thy  zenith,  sat  there  throned, 
And  made  the  whole  earth  day  —  look,  if  thou 

canst, 

Out  of  thy  veiled  glory,  and  behold 
How  all  these  lesser  lights  but  come  and  go, 
Mere  reflexes  of  thee.     Be  it  so !     I  keep 
My  face  unto  the  eastward,  where  thou  stand'st  — 
I  know  thou  stand'st  —  behind  the  purpling  hills, 
And  I  shall  wake  and  find  morn  in  the  world. 


1 3o  BURIED   TO-DAY. 

BURIED   TO-DAY. 

February  23, 1858. 

[JURIED  to-day. 

When  the  soft  green  buds  are  burst- 
ing out, 
And  up  on  the  south  wind  comes  a 

shout 

Of  village  boys  and  girls  at  play 
In  the  mild  spring  evening  gray. 

Taken  away 

Sturdy  of  heart  and  stout  of  limb, 

From  eyes  that  drew  half  their  light  from  him, 

And  put  low,  low,  underneath  the  clay, 

In  his  spring  —  on  this  spring  day. 

Passes  away 

All  the  pride  of  boy-life  begun, 

All  the  hope  of  life  yet  to  run  ; 
Who  dares  to  question  when  One  saith  "  Kay." 
Murmur  not  —  only  pray. 

Enters  to-day 

Another  body  in  churchyard  sod, 

Another  soul  on  the  life  in  God. 
His  Christ  was  buried  —  and  lives  alway  : 
Trust  Him,  and  go  your  way. 


THE  MILL.  1 3I 

THE   MILL. 

For  an  Irish  Tune. 

jj]  "ENDING  and  grinding 

Bound  goes  the  mill : 
Winding  and  grinding 

Should  never  stand  still. 
Ask  not  if  neighbor 

Grind  great  or  small : 
Spare  not  your  labor, 

Grind  your  wheat  all. 

Winding  and  grinding  round  goes  the  mill : 
Winding  and  grinding  should  never  stand  still. 

Winding  and  grinding 

Work  through  the  day, 
Grief  never  minding  — 

Grind  it  away ! 
What  though  tears  dropping 

Kust  as  they  fall  ? 
Have  no  wheel  stopping  — 

Work  comforts  all. 

Winding  and  grinding  round  goes  the  mill : 
Winding  and  grinding  should  never  stand  still. 


132  NORTH   WIND. 


NORTH  WIND. 

f|OUD  wind,  strong  wind,  sweeping  o'er 

the  mountains, 
Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  blowing  from 

the  sea, 

Pour  forth  thy  vials  like  streams  from  airy  foun- 
tains, 
Draughts  of  life  to  me. 

Clear  wind,  cold  wind,  like  a  Northern  giant, 
Stars  brightly  threading  thy  cloud-driven  hair, 

Thrilling  the  blank  night  with  thy  voice  defiant, 
Lo  !  I  meet  thee  there. 

Wild  wind,  bold  wind,  like  a  strong-armed  angel, 
Clasp  me  and  kiss  me  with  thy  kisses  divine ; 

Breathe  in  this  dulled  ear  thy  secret  sweet  evan- 
gel— 
Mine  —  and  only  mine. 

Fierce  wind,  mad  wind,  howling  o'er  the  nations, 
Knew'st  thou  how  leapeth  my  heart  as  thou  go- 
est  by : 

Ah,  thou  wouldst  pause  awhile  in  a  sudden  patience 
Like  a  human  sigh. 


NOW  AND  AFTERWARDS.  133 

Sharp  wind,  keen  wind,  cutting  as  word-arrows, 
Empty  thy  quiverful !  pass  by !     What  is  't  to 

thee, 
That  in  some  mortal  eyes  life's  whole  bright  circle 

narrows, 
To  one  misery  ? 

Loud  wind,  strong  wind,  stay  thou  in  the  moun- 
tains, 

Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  trouble  not  the  sea. 
Or  lay  thy  deathly  hand  upon  my  heart's  warm 

fountains, 
That  I  hear  not  thee. 


NOW  AND  AFTEKWAKDS. 

"  Two  hands  upon  the  breast  and  labor  is  past." 

RUSSIAN  PROVERB. 

jjWO  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labor  's  done ; 
Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest  — 

The  race  is  won ; 
Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 

And  all  tears  cease ; 
Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 
Anger  at  peace  " ;  — 


I34  -4  SKETCH. 

So  pray  we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot 
God  in  his  kindness  answereth  not. 


"  Two  hands  to  work  addrest 

Aye  for  His  praise ; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest 

Walking  His  ways; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above 

Through  all  their  tears  ; 
Two  lips  still  breathing  love, 

Not  wrath,  nor  fears  " ; 
So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our  knees ; 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers !    Father,  hear  these ! 


A   SKETCH. 

"  Emelie,  that  fayrer  was  to  seene 
Than  is  the  lilye  on  hys  stalke  grene. 
Uprose  the  sun  and  uprose  Emelie." 


OST  thou  thus  love  me,  0  thou  beauti- 


So  beautiful,  that  by  thy  side  I  seem 
Like  a  great  dusky  cloud  beside  a  star : 
Yet  thou  creep'st  o'er  its  edges,  and  it  rests 
On  its  lone  path,  the  slow  deep-hearted  cloud  — 


A  SKETCH. 


135 


Then  opes  a  rift  and  lets  thee  enter  in ; 
And  with  thy  beauty  shining  on  its  breast, 
Feels  no  more  its  own  blackness  —  thou  art  fair. 

Dost  thou  thus  love  me,  O  thou  all  beloved, 
In  whose  large  store  the  very  meanest  coin 
Would  out-buy  my  whole  wealth  ?    Yet  here  thou 

comest 

Like  a  kind  heiress  from  her  purple  and  down 
Uprising,  who  for  pity  cannot  sleep, 
But  goes  forth  to  the  stranger  at  her  gate — 
The  beggared  stranger  at  her  beauteous  gate  — 
And  clothes  and  feeds;  scarce  blest  till  she  has 

blest. 

Dost  thou  thus  love  me,  0  thou  pure  of  heart, 
"Whose  very  looks  are  prayers'?      What  couldst 

thou  see 

In  this  forsaken  pool  by  the  yew-wood's  side, 
To  sit  down  at  its  bank,  and  dip  thy  hand, 
Saying,  "It  is  so  clear!  "  —  And  lo,  erelong 
Its  blackness  caught  the  shimmer  of  thy  wings, 
Its  slimes  slid  downward  from  thy  stainless  palm, 
Its  depths  grew  still  that  there  thy  form  might  rise. 

O  beautiful !  O  well-beloved !  O  rich 

In  all  that  makes  my  need !     I  lay  me  down 

I'  the  shadow  of  thy  love,  and  feel  no  pain. 


I36        THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY. 

The  cloud  floats  on,  thee  glittering  on  its  breast, 
The  beggar  wears  thy  purple  as  his  own : 
The  noisome  waves,  made  calm,  creep  to  thy  feet 
Rejoicing  that  they  yet  can  image  thee, 
And  beyond  thee,  God's  heaven,  thick-sown  with 
stars. 


THE  UNKNOWN   COUNTRY. 

To  a  German  Air. 

HERE  is  the  unknown  country  ?  " 
I  whispered  sad  and  slow,  — 
The  strange  and  awful  country 
To  which  I  soon  must  go,  must  go, 
To  which  I  soon  must  go  ?  " 

Out  of  the  unknown  country 

A  voice  sang  soft  and  low :  — 
"  O  pleasant  is  that  country 

And  sweet  it  is  to  go,  to  go, 

And  sweet  it  is  to  go. 

"  Along  the  shining  country 
The  peaceful  rivers  flow : 


A   CHILD'S  SMILE.  137 

And  in  that  wondrous  country 

The  tree  of  life  does  grow,  does  grow, 
The  tree  of  life  does  grow/' 

Ah,  then  into  that  country 

Of  which  I  nothing  know, 
The  everlasting  country, 

With  willing  heart  I  go,  I  go, 

With  willing  heart  I  go. 


A   CHILD'S   SMILE. 

"For  I  say  unto  you,  that  in  heaven  their  angels  do  al- 
ways behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

CHILD'S  smile  —  nothing  more ; 
Quiet,  and  soft,  and  grave,  and  seldom 

seen; 

Like  summer  lightning  o'er, 
Leaving  the  little  face  again  serene. 

I  think,  boy  well-beloved, 

Thine  angel,  who  did  grieve  to  see  how  far 

Thy  childhood  is  removed 

From  sports  that  dear  to  other  children  are, 


138  A    CHILD'S  SMILE. 

On  this  pale  cheek  has  thrown 

The  brightness  of  his  countenance,  and  made 

A  beauty  like  his  own  — 

That,  while  we  see  it,  we  are  half  afraid, 

And  marvel,  will  it  stay  ? 

Or,  long  ere  manhood,  will  that  angel  fair, 

Departing  some  sad  day, 

Steal  the  child-smile  and  leave  the  shadow  care  ? 

Nay,  fear  not.     As  is  given 

Unto  this  child  the  father  watching  o'er, 

His  angel  up  in  heaven 

Beholds  Our  Father's  face  for  evermore. 

And  he  will  help  him  bear 

His  burthen,  as  his  father  helps  him  now ; 

So  may  he  come  to  wear 

That  happy  child-smile  on  an  old  man's  brow. 


VIOLETS.  I39 


VIOLETS. 
SENT  IN  A  LITTLE  BOX. 


ST  them  lie,  yes,  let  them  lie, 
They  '11  be  dead  to-morrow : 
Lift  the  lid  up  quietly 
As  you  'd  lift  the  mystery 
Of  a  shrouded  sorrow. 

Let  them  lie,  the  fragrant  things, 
Their  sweet  souls  thus  giving : 
Let  no  breezes'  ambient  wings, 
And  no  useless  water-springs 
Lure  them  into  living. 

They  have  lived — they  live  no  more: 
Nothing  can  requite  them 

For  the  gentle  life  they  bore 

And  up-yielded  in  full  store 
While  it  did  delight  them. 

Yet,  poor  flowers,  not  sad  to  die 

In  the  hand  that  slew  ye, 
Did  ye  leave  the  open  sky, 
And  the  winds  that  wandered  by, 

And  the  bees  that  knew  ye. 


140  VIOLETS.      ^ 

Giving  up  a  small  earth  place, 

And  a  day  of  blooming, 
Here  to  lie  in  narrow  space, 
Smiling  in  this  sickly  face, 
This  dull  air  perfuming  ? 

O  my  pretty  violets  dead, 
Coffined  from  all  gazes, 
We  will  also  smiling  shed 
Out  of  our  flowers  withered, 
Perfume  of  sweet  praises. 

And  as  ye,  for  this  poor  sake, 

Love  with  life  are  buying, 

So,  I  doubt  not,  ONE  will  make 

All  our  gathered  flowers  to  take 

Kicher  scent  through  dying. 


EDENLAND.  i4I 

EDENLAND. 

For  Music. 

flO  U  remember  where  in  starlight 

We  two  wandered  hand  in  hand, 
While  the  night-flowers  poured  their 

perfume, 

And  night-airs  the  still  earth  fanned  ?  — 
There  I,  walking  yester  even, 
Felt  like  a  ghost  in  Edenland. 

I  remember  all  you  told  me, 

Looking  up  as  we  did  stand, 
While  my  heart  poured  out  its  perfume, 

Like  the  night-flowers  in  your  hand ; 
And  the  path  where  we  two  wandered 

Seemed  not  like  earth  but  Edenland. 

Now  the  stars  shine  paler,  colder 

Night-flowers  die  without  your  hand ; 

Yet  my  spirit  walks  beside  you 
Everywhere,  unsought,  unbanned. 

And  I  wait  till  we  shall  wander 
Under  the  stars  of  Edenland. 


I42  THE  HOUSE   OF   CLAY. 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CLAY. 

jlHERE  was  a  house,  a  house  of  clay, 
Wherein  the  inmate  sat  all  day, 

Merry  and  poor ; 

For  Hope  sat  with  her,  heart  to  heart, 
Fond  and  kind,  fond  and  kind, 
Vowing  he  never  would  depart,  — 

Till  all  at  once  he  changed  his  mind : 
"  Sweetheart,  good  by !  "     He  slipped  away 
And  shut  the  door. 

But  Love  came  past,  and,  looking  in, 
With  smile  that  pierced  like  sunbeam  thin 

Through  wall,  roof,  floor, 
Stood  in  the  midst  of  that  poor  room, 

Grand  and  fair,  grand  and  fair, 
Making  a  glory  out  of  gloom  :  — 

Till  at  the  window  mocked  grim  Care  : 
Love  sighed;  "All  lose,  and  nothing  win  ?  "  — 

He  shut  the  door. 

Then  o'er  the  close-barred  house  of  clay 
Kind  clematis  and  woodbine  gay 

Crept  more  and  more  ; 
And  bees  hummed  merrily  outside, 


WINTER  MOONLIGHT.  143 

Loud  and  strong,  loud  and  strong, 
The  inner  silentness  to  hide, 

The  patient  silence  all  day  long ; 
Till  evening  touched  with  finger  gray 

The  bolted  door. 

Most  like,  the  next  step  passing  by 
Will  be  the  Angel's,  whose  calm  eye 

Marks  rich,  marks  poor  : 
Who,  fearing  not,  at  any  gate 

Stands  and  calls,  stands  and  calls ; 
At  which  the  inmate  opens  straight,  — 

Whom,  ere  the  crumbling  clay-house  falls, 
He  takes  in  kind  arms  silently, 

And  shuts  the  door. 


WINTER  MOONLIGHT. 

OUD-VOICED   night,  with  the  wild 

wind  blowing 
Many  a  tune ; 
Stormy  night,  with  white  rain-clouds 

going 

Over  the  moon ; 

Mystic  night,  that  each  minute  changes, 
Now  as  blue  as  the  mountain-ranges 


144  WINTER  MOONLIGHT. 

Far,  far  away ; 

Now  as  black  as  a  heart  where  strange  is 
Joy,  night  or  day. 

"Wondrous  moonlight,  unlike  all  moonlights 

Since  I  was  born ; 
That  on  a  hundred,  bright  as  noonlights, 

Looks  in  slow  scorn,  — 
Moonlights  where  the  old  vine-leaves  quiver, 
Moonlights  shining  on  vale  and  river, 

"Where  old  paths  lie  ; 
Moonlights  —  Night,  blot  their  like  forever 

Out  of  the  sky ! 

Hail,  new  moonlight,  fierce,  wild,  and  stormy, 

Wintry  and  bold ! 
Hail,  sharp  wind,  that  can  strengthen,  warm  me, 

If  ne'er  so  cold  ! 

Not  chance-driven  this  deluge  rages, 
ONE  doth  pour  out  and  ONE  assuages ; 

Under  His  hand 

Drifting,  Noah-like,  into  the  ages 
shall  touch  land. 


THE  PLANTING.  145 


THE   PLANTING. 

"  I  said  to  my  little  son,  who  was  watching  tearfully  a  tree 
he  had  planted,  — '  Let  it  alone :  it  will  grow  while  you  are 
sleeping.' " 

^]LANT  it  safe  and  sure,  my  child, 

Then   cease  watching    and    cease 

weeping ; 

You  have  done  your  utmost  part : 
Leave  it  with  a  quiet  heart : 

It  will  grow  while  you  are  sleeping. 

"  But,  O  father,"  says  the  child, 

With  a  troubled  face  up-creeping, 

"  How  can  I  but  think  and  grieve 

When  the  fierce  wind  comes  at  eve 
Tearing  it  —  and  I  lie  sleeping ! 

"  I  have  loved  my  young  tree  so  ! 

In  each  bud  seen  leaf  and  floweret, 
Watered  it  each  day  with  prayers, 
Guarded  it  with  many  cares, 

Lest  some  canker  should  devour  it. 

"  0  good  father,"  sobs  the  child, 

"  If  I  come  in  summer's  shining 


J46  THE  PLANTING. 

And  my  pretty  tree  be  dead, 
How  the  sun  will  scorch  my  head, 
How  I  shall  sit  lorn,  repining ! 

"  Rather  let  me,  evermore, 

An  incessant  watch  thus  keeping, 
Bear  the  cold,  the  storm,  the  frost, 
That  my  treasure  be  not  lost  — 

Ay,  bear  aught  — but  idle  sleeping." 

Sternly  said  the  father  then, 

"Who  art  thou,  child,  vainly  grieving? 
Canst  thou  send  the  balmy  dews, 
Or  the  rich  sap  interfuse 

Through  the  dead  trunk,  inly  living  ? 

"  Canst  thou  bid  the  heavens  restrain 

Natural  tempests  for  thy  praying  ? 
Canst  thou  bend  one  tender  shoot, 
Urge  the  growth  of  one  frail  root, 
Keep  one  leaflet  from  decaying  ? 

"  If  it  live  to  bloom  all  fair, 

Will  it  praise  thee  for  its  blossom  ? 

If  it  die,  will  any  plaints 

Beach  thee,  as  with  kings  and  saints 
Drops  it  to  the  cold  earth's  bosom? 


THE  PLANTING.  147 

"  Plant  it  —  all  tliou  canst !  — with  prayers  : 
It  is  safe  'ncath  His  sky's  folding 

Who  the  whole  earth  compasses, 

Whether  we  watch  more  or  less, 

His  wide  eye  all  things  beholding. 

"  Should  He  need  a  goodly  tree 

For  the  shelter  of  the  nations, 
He  will  make  it  grow  :  if  not, 
Never  yet  His  love  forgot 

Human  love,  and  faith,  and  patience. 

"  Leave  thy  treasure  in  His  hand  — 

Cease  all  watching  and  all  weeping : 

Years  hence,  men  its  shade  may  crave, 

And  its  mighty  branches  wave 

Beautiful  above  thy  sleeping." 

If  his  hope,  tear-sown,  that  child 

Garnered  after  joyful  reaping, 
Know  I  not :  yet  unawares 
Gleams  this  truth  through  many  cares, 

"  It  will  grow  while  tliou  art  sleeping." 


i48          SITTING   ON   THE  SHORE. 


SITTING   ON  THE   SHORE. 

jjHE  tide  has  ebbed  away  : 
No  more  wild  dashings  'gainst  the  ad- 
amant rocks, 
Nor   swayings   amidst   sea-weed    false 

that  mocks 

The  hues  of  gardens  gay  : 
No  laugh  of  little  wavelets  at  their  play : 
No  lucid  pools  reflecting  heaven's  clear  brow  — 
Both  storm  and  calm  alike  are  ended  now. 

The  rocks  sit  gray  and  lone : 
The  shifting  sand  is  spread  so  smooth  and  dry, 
That  not  a  tide  might  ever  have  swept  by 

Stirring  it  with  rude  moan  : 

Only  some  weedy  fragments  idly  thrown 
To  rot  beneath  the  sky,  tell  what  has  been : 
But  Desolation's  self  has  grown  serene. 

Afar  the  mountains  rise, 
And  the  broad  estuary  widens  out, 
All  sunshine ;  wheeling  round  and  round  about 

Seaward,  a  white  bird  flies. 

A  bird  ?     Nay,  seems  it  rather  in  these  eyes 
A  spirit,  o'er  Eternity's  dim  sea 
Calling  —  "  Come  thou  where  all  we  glad  souls  be. 


EUDOXIA. 


149 


O  life,  0  silent  shore, 
Where  we  sit  patient ;  O  great  sea  beyond 
To  which  we  turn  with  solemn  hope  and  fond, 

But  sorrowful  no  more : 

A  little  while,  and  then  we  too  shall  soar 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  into  the  Infinite  Deep : 
Till  then,  Thou,  Father  — wilt  our  spirits  keep. 


EUDOXIA. 

FIRST  PICTURE. 

SWEETEST  my  sister,  my  sister  that 

sits  in  the  sun, 

Her  lap  full  of  jewels,  and  roses  in  show- 
ers on  her  hair ; 
Soft  smiling  and  counting  her  riches  up  slow,  one 

by  one, 
Cool-browed,  shaking  dew  from  her  garlands  — 

those  garlands  so  fair, 
Many  gasp,  climb,  snatch,  struggle,  and  die  for  — 

her  every-day  wear ! 
0  beauteous  my  sister,  turn  downwards  those  mild 

eyes  of  thine, 

Lest  they  stab  with  their  smiling,  and  blister  or 
scorch  where  they  shine. 


i5o  EUDOXIA. 

Young  sister  who  never  yet  sat  for  an  hour  in  the 

cold, 
Whose  cheek  scarcely  feels  half  the  roses  that 

throng  to  caress, 
Whose  light  hands  hold  loosely  these  jewels  and 

silver  and  gold, 
Remember  thou  those  in  the  world  who  forever  on 

press 

In  perils  and  watchings,  and  hunger  and  naked- 
ness, 
While  thou  sit'st  content  in  the   sunlight  that 

round  thee  doth  shine. 
Take  heed  !  these  have  long  borne  their  burthen  — 

now  lift  thou  up  thine. 

Be  meek  —  as  befits  one  whose  cup  to  the  brim  is 
love-crowned, 

While  others  in  dry  dust  drop  empty  —  What, 
what  canst  thou  know 

Of  the  wild  human  tide  that  goes  sweeping  eter- 
nally round 

The  isle  where  thou  sit'st  pure  and  calm  as  a  statue 
of  snow, 

Around  which  good  thoughts  like  kind  angels  con- 
tinually go  ? 

Be  pitiful.  Whose  eyes  once  turned  from  the  an- 
gels to  shine 

Upon  publicans,  sinners  ?  O  sister,  't  will  not 
pollute  thine. 


EUDOXIA.  151 

Wlio,  even-eyed,  looks  on  His  children,  the  black 

and  the  fair, 
The  loved  and  the  unloved,  the  tempted,  untempt- 

ed  —  marks  all, 
And  metes  —  not  as  man  metes  ?     If  thou  with 

weak  tender  hand  dare 
To  take  up  His  balances  —  say  where  His  justice 

should  fall, 
Far  better  be  Magdalen  dead  at  the  gate  of  thy 

hall  — 

Dead,  sinning,  and  loving,  and  contrite,  and  par- 
doned, to  shine 
Midst  the  saints  high  in  heaven,  than  thou,  angel 

sister  of  mine ! 


EUDOXIA. 

SECOND  PICTURE. 

DEAREST  my  sister,  my  sister  who 

sits  by  the  hearth, 
With  lids  softly  drooping,  or  lifted  up 

saintly  and  calm, 
"With  household  hands  folded,  or  opened  for  help 
and  for  balm, 


I5a  EUDOXIA. 

And  lips,  ripe  and  dewy,  or  ready  for  innocent 

mirth,  — 
Thy  life  rises  upwards  to  heaven  every  day  like  a 

psalm 
Which  the  singer  sings  sleeping,  and  waked,  would 

half  wondering  say  — 
"  I  sang  not.     Nay,  how  could  I  sing  thus  ?  —  I 

only  do  pray." 

O  gentlest  my  sister,  who  walks  in  at  every  dark 

door 
Whether  bolted  or  open,  unheedful  of  welcome  or 

frown  i 
But  entering  silent  as  sunlight,  and  there  sitting 

down, 
Illumines   the  damp   walls  and   shines   pleasant 

shapes  on  the  floor, 
And  unlocks  dim  chambers  where  low  lies  sad 

Hope,  without  crown, 
Uplifts  her  from  sackcloth  and  ashes  and  black 

mourning  weeds, 
Ee-crowns  and  re-clothes  her.  —  Then,  on  to  the 

next  door  that  needs. 

O  blessed  my  sister,  whose  spirit  so  wholly  dost 

live 
In  loving,  that  even  the  word  "  loved,"  with  its 

rapturous  sound, 


EUDOXIA.  153 

Rings  faintly,  like  earth-tunes  when  angels  are 

hymning  around : 
Whose  eyes  say :  "  Less  happy  methinks  to  receive 

than  to  give."  — 
So  whatsoever  we  give,  may  One  give  to  thee 

without  bound, 
All  best  gifts  —  all  dearest  gifts  —  whether  His 

right  hand  do  close 
Or  open  —  He  holds  it  forever  above  thee ;  —  He 

knows ! 


EUDOXIA. 

THIRD  PICTURE. 

SILENT  my  sister,  who  stands  by  my 

side  at  the  shore, 
Back  gazing  with  me  on  those  waves 

which  we  mortals  call  years, 
That  rose,  grew,  and  threatened,  and  climaxed, 

and  broke,  and  were  o'er, 
While  we  still  sit  watching  and  watching,  our 

cheeks  free  from  tears  — 

O  sister,  with  looks  so  familiar,  yet  strange,  flit- 
ting by, 

Say,  say,  hast  thou  been  to  those  dead  years  as 
faUhful  as  I  ? 


IS4  EUDOX.IA. 

Have  they  cast  at  thy  feet  also,  jewels  and  whiten- 
ing bones, 

Gold,  silver,  and  wreck-wood,  dank  sea-weed  and 
treasures  of  cost  ? 

Hast  thou  buried  thy  dead,  sought  thy  jewels 
'midst  shingle  and  stones, 

And  learnt  how  the  lost  is  the  found,  and  the 
found  is  the  lost  ? 

Or  stood  with  clear  eyes  upturned  placid  'twixt 
sorrow  and  mirth, 

As  asking  deep  questions  that  cannot  be  answered 
on  earth  ?  — 

I  know  not.  Who  knoweth  ?  Our  own  souls  we 
scarcely  do  know, 

And  none  knows  his  bro ther's.  Who  judges,  con- 
temns, or  bewails, 

Or  mocketh,  or  praiseth  ?  In  this  world's  strange 
vanishing  show, 

The  one  truth  is  loving.  O  sister,  the  dark  cloud 
that  veils 

All  life,  lets  this  rift  through  to  glorify  future  and 
past. 

"Love  ever — love  only — love  faithfully — love  to 
the  last." 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI.  155 

BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 
I. 

THE  NOVICE. 

[]T  is  near  morning.     Ere  the  next  night 

fall 
I  shall  be  made  the  bride  of  heaven. 

Then  home 
To  my  still  marriage  chamber  I  shall  come, 
And  spo useless,  childless,  watch  the  slow  years 
crawl. 

These  lips  will  never  meet  a  softer  touch 
Than  the  stone  crucifix  I  kiss  ;  no  child 
Will  clasp  this  neck.     Ah,  virgin-mother  mild, 

Thy  painted  bliss  will  mock  me  overmuch. 

This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  twist  the  hair 

My  mother's  hand  wreathed,  till  in  dust  she  lay : 
The  name,  her  name,  given  on  my  baptism-day, 

This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  bear. 

O  weary  world,  0  heavy  life,  farewell ! 
Like  a  tired  child  that  creeps  into  the  dark 


156  BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 

To  sob  itself  asleep,  where  none  will  mark,  — 
So  creep  I  to  my  silent  convent  cell. 

Friends,  lovers  whom  I  loved  not,  kindly  hearts 
Who  grieve  that  I  should  enter  this  still  door, 
Grieve  not.  Closing  behind  me  evermore, 

Me  from  all  anguish,  as  all  joy,  it  parts. 

Love,  whom  alone  I  loved ;  who  stand'st  far  off, 
Lifting  compassionate  eyes  that  could  not  save, 
Remember,  this  my  spirit's  quiet  grave 

Hides  me  from  worldly  pity,  worldly  scoff. 

'T  was  less  thy  hand  than  Heaven's  which  came 

between, 

And  dashed  my  cup  down.    See,  I  shed  no  tears  : 
And  if  I  think  at  all  of  vanished  years, 

'T  is  but  to  bless  thee,  dear,  for  what  has  been. 

My  soul  continually  does  cry  to  thee ; 

In  the  night-watches  ghost-like  stealing  out 
From  its  flesh  tomb,  and  hovering  thee  about ; 

So  live  that  I  in  heaven  thy  face  may  see ! 

Live,  noble  heart,  of  whom  this  heart  of  mine 
Was  half  unworthy.     Build  up  actions  great, 
That  I  down  looking  from  the  crystal  gate 

Smile  o'er  our  dead  hopes  urned  in  such  a  shrine. 


BENEDETTA  M IN  ELL  I. 


157 


Live,  keeping  aye  thy  spirit  undefiled, 

That,  when  we  stand  before  our  Master's  feet, 
I  with  an  angel's  love  may  crown  complete 

The  woman's  faith,  the  worship  of  the  child. 

Dawn,  solemn  bridal  morn ;  ope,  bridal  door ; 

I  enter.     My  vowed  soul  may  Heaven  now  take ; 

My  heart  its  virgin  spousal  for  thy  sake ; 
O  love,  keeps  sacred  thus  forevermore. 


II. 

THE  SISTER  OP  MERCY. 

F]S  it  then  so  ?  —  Good  friends,  who  sit  and 

sigh  ^ 
While  I  lie  smiling,  are  my  life's  sands 

run1? 

Will  my  next  matins,  hymned  beyond  the  sun, 
Mingle  with  those  of  saints  and  martyrs  high  ? 

Shall  I  with  these  my  gray  hairs  turned  to  gold, 
My  aged  limbs  new  clad  in  garments  white, 
Stand  all  transfigured  in  the  angels'  sight, 

Singing  triumphantly  that  moan  of  old,  — 


158  BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 

Thy  will  be  done  ?     It  was  done.     O  my  God, 
Thou  know'st,  when  over  grief  s  tempestuous  sea 
My  broken-winged  soul  fled  home  to  Thee, 

I  writhed,  but  never  murmured  at  Thy  rod. 

It  fell  upon  me,  stern  at  first,  then  soft 

As  parent's  kisses,  till  the  wound  was  healed ; 
And  I  went  forth  a  laborer  in  Thy  field :  — 

They  best  can  bind  who  have  been  bruised  oft. 

And  Thou  wert  pitiful.     I  came  heart-sore, 

And  drank  Thy  cup  because  earth's  cups  ran 

dry  : 
Thou  slew'st  me  not  for  that  impiety, 

But  madest  the  draught  so  sweet,  I  thirst  no  more. 

I  came  for  silence,  heavy  rest,  or  death : 

Thou  gavest  instead  life,  peace,  and  holy  toil : 
My  sighing  lips  from  sorrow  didst  assoil, 

And  fill  with  righteous  thankfulness  each  breath. 

Therefore  I  praise  Thee  that  Thou  shuttest  Thine 

ears 

Unto  my  misery  :  didst  Thy  will,  not  mine  : 
That  to  this  length  of  days  Thy  hand  divine, 

My  feet  from  falling  kept,  mine  eyes  from  tears. 

Sisters,  draw  near.     Hear  my  last  words  serene : 
When  I  was  young  I  walked  in  mine  own  ways, 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 


'59 


Worshipped  —  not  God:  sought  not  alone  His 

praise ; 
So  he  cut  down  my  gourd  while  it  was  green. 

And  then  He  o'er  me  threw  His  holy  shade, 
That  though  no  other  mortal  plants  might  grow, 
Mocking  the  beauty  that  was  long  laid  low, 

I  dwelt  in  peace,  and  His  commands  obeyed. 

I  thank  Him  for  all  joy  and  for  all  pain  : 
For  healed  pangs,  for  years  of  calm  content : 
For  blessedness  of  spending  and  being  spent 

In  His  high  service  where  all  loss  is  gain. 

I  bless  Him  for  my  life  and  for  my  death ; 

But  most,  that  in  my  death  my  life  is  crowned, 
Since  I  see  there,  with  angels  gathering  round, 

My  angel.     Ay,  love,  tjiou  hast  kept  thy  faith, 

I  mine.     The  golden  portals  will  not  close 

Like  those  of  earth,  between  us.     Reach  thy 

hand ! 
No  miserere,  sisters.     Chant  out  grand 

Te  Deum  laudamus.     Now,  —  't  is  all  repose. 


160  A  DREAM  OF  DEATH. 


A  DREAM  OF  DEATH. 

[iHERE  shall  we  sail  to-day  ?  "  —  Thus 

said,  methought, 
A  voice,  that  only  could  be  heard  in 

dreams : 

And  on  we  glided  without  mast  or  oar, 
A  wondrous  boat  upon  a  wondrous  sea. 

Sudden,  the  shore  curved  inward  to  a  bay, 
Broad,  calm,  with  gorgeous  sea-weeds  waving  slow 
Beneath  the  water,  like  rich  thoughts  that  stir 
In  the  mysterious  deep  of  poets'  hearts. 

So  still,  so  fair,  so  rosy  in  the  dawn 

Lay  that  bright  bay  :   yet  something  seemed  to 

breathe, 

Or  in  the  air,  or  from  the  whispering  waves, 
Or  from  that  voice,  as  near  as  one's  own  soul, 

"  There  was  a  wreck  last  night."     A  wreck  ?  then 

where 

The  ship,  the  crew  ?  —  The  all-entombing  sea 
On  which  is  writ  nor  name  nor  chronicle 
Laid  itself  o'er  them  with  smooth  crystal  smile. 


A  DREAM  OF  DEATH.  161 

"  Yet  was  the  wreck  last  night"     And  gazing  down 
Deep  down  below  the  surface,  we  were  ware 
Of  ghastly  faces  with  their  open  eyes 
Uplooking  to  the  dawn  they  could  not  see. 

One  moved  with  moving  sea-weeds :  one  lay  prone, 
The  tinted  fishes  gliding  o'er  his  breast ; 
One,  caught  by  floating  hair,  rocked  quietly 
Upon  his  reedy  cradle,  like  a  child. 

"  The  wreck  has  been  "  —  said  the  melodious  voice, 
"  Yet  all  is  peace.     The  dead,  that,  while  we  slept, 
Struggled  for  life,  now  sleep  and  fear  no  storms  : 
O'er  them  let  us  not  weep  when  heaven  smiles." 

So  we  sailed  on  above  the  diamond  sands, 
Bright  sea-flowers,  and  white  faces  stony  calm, 
Till  the  waves  bore  us  to  thex>pen  main, 
And  the  great  sun  arose  upon  the  world. 


1 62     A  DREAM  OF  RESURRECTION. 


A  DREAM   OF  RESURRECTION. 

0  heavenly  beautiful  it  lay, 

It  was  less  like  a  human  corse 
Than  that  fair  shape  in  which  perforce 
A  lost  hope  clothes  itself  alway. 

The  dream  showed  very  plain :  the  hed 

Where  that  known  unknown  face  reposed,  — 
A  woman's  face  with  eyelids  closed, 

A  something  precious  that  was  dead ; 

A  something,  lost  on  this  side  life, 

By  which  the  mourner  came  and  stood, 
And  laid  down,  ne'er  to  be  indued, 

All  flaunting  robes  of  earthly  strife ; 

Shred  off,  like  votive  locks  of  hair, 

Youth's  ornaments  of  pride  and  strength, 
And  cast  them  in  their  golden  length 

The  silence  of  that  bier  to  share. 

No  tears  fell,  — but  with  gazings  long 
Lorn  memory  tried  to  print  that  face 
On  the  heart's  ever-vacant  place, 

With  a  sun-finger,  sharp  and  strong.  — 


A  DREAM  OF  RESURRECTION.     163 

Then  kisses,  dropping  without  sound, 
And  solemn  arms  wound  round  the  dead, 
And  lifting  from  the  natural  bed 

Into  the  coffin's  strange  new  bound. 

Yet  still  no  farewell,  or  belief 

In  death,  no  more  than  one  believes 
In  some  dread  truth  that  sudden  weaves 

The  whole  world  in  a  shroud  of  grief. 

And  still  unanswered  kisses ;  still 
Warm  clingings  to  the  image  cold 
With  an  incredulous  faith's  close  fold, 

Creative  in  its  fierce  "/  will." 

Hush,  —  hush !  the  marble  eyelids  move, 
The  kissed  lips  quiver  into  breath : 
Avaunt,  thou  mockery  of  Death  ! 

Avaunt !  —  we  are  conquerors,  I  and  Love. 

Corpse  of  dead  Hope,  awake,  arise, 

A  living  Hope  that  only  slept 

Until  the  tears  thus  overwept 
Had  washed  the  blindness  from  our  eyes. 

Come  back  into  the  upper  day : 

Pluck  off  these  cerements.     Patient  shroud, 
We  '11  wrap  thee  as  a  garment  proud 

Bound  the  fair  shape  we  thought  was  clay. 


1 64  ON  THE   CLIFF-TOP. 

Clasp,  arms  ;  cling,  soul ;  eyes,  drink  anew 
The  beauty  that  returns  with  breath  : 
Faith,  that  out-loved  this  trance-like  death, 

May  see  this  resurrection  too. 


ON  THE   CLIFF-TOP. 

jjACE  upward  to  the  sky 
Quiet  I  lie  : 

Quiet  as  if  the  finger  of  God's  will 
Had  bade  this  human  mechanism  "  be 

still!" 

And  sent  the  intangible  essence,  this  strange  7, 
All  wondering  forth  to  His  eternity. 

Below,  the  sea's  sound,  faint 

As  dying  saint 

Telling  of  gone-by  sorrows  long  at  rest : 

Above,  the  fearless  sea-gull's  shimmering  breast 

Painted  a  moment  on  the  dark  blue  skies  — 

A  hovering  joy,  that  while  I  watch  it  flies. 

Alike  unheeded  now 

Old  griefs,  and  thou 

Quick-winged  Joy,  that  like  a  bird  at  play 

Pleasest  thyself  to  visit  me  to-day : 


AN  EVENING   GUEST. 

On  the  cliff-top,  earth  dim  and  heaven  clear, 
My  soul  lies  calmly,  above  hope  —  or  fear. 


165 


But  not  —  (do  Thou  forbid 

Whose  stainless  lid 

Wept  tears  at  Lazarus'  grave,  and  looking  down 

Afar  off,  upon  Solyma's  doomed  town.) 

Ah,  not  above  love  —  human  yet  divine  — 

Which,  Thee  seen  first,  in  Thee  sees  all  of  Thine ! 

Is  't  sunset  ?     The  keen  breeze 

Blows  from  the  seas  : 

And  at  my  side  a  pleasant  vision  stands 

With  her  brown  eyes  and  kind  extended  hands. 

Dear,  we  '11  go  down  together  and  full  fain 

From  the  cliff-top  to  the  busy  world  again. 


AN  EVENING   GUEST. 

,  in  the  silence  of  this  lonely  eve, 
With  the  street  lamp  pale  nickering 

on  the  wall, 

An  angel  were  to  whisper  me,  "  Be- 
lieve — 

It  shall  be  given  thee.     Call ! "  —  whom  should  I 
call? 


1 66  AN  EVENING   GUEST. 

And  then  I  were  to  see  thee  gliding  in 

Clad  in  known  garments,  that  with  empty  fold 

Lie  in  my  keeping,  and  my  fingers,  thin 

As  thine  were  once,  to  feel  in  thy  safe  hold : 

"  I  should  fall  weeping  on  thy  neck  and  say, 
"  I  have  so  suffered  since  —  since  —  "     But  my 

tears 
Would  stop,  remembering  how  thou  count'st  thy 

day, 
A  day  that  is  with  God  a  thousand  years. 

Then  what  are  these  sad  days,  months,  years  of 
mine, 

To  thine  eternity  of  full  delight  ? 
What  my  whole  life,  when  myriad  lives  divine 

May  wait,  each  leading  to  a  higher  height  ? 

I  lose  myself —  I  faint.     Beloved,  best, 
Let  me  still  dream,  thy  dear  humanity 

Sits  with  me  here,  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 
And  then  I  will  go  back  to  heaven  with  thee. 


AFTER  SUNSET.  167 


AFTER   SUNSET. 


—  rest  —  four    little    letters,  one 
short  word, 

Enfolding  an  infinitude  of  bliss  — 
Rest  is  upon  the  earth.      The  heavy 

clouds 

Hang  poised  in  silent  ether,  motionless, 
Seeking  nor  sun  nor  breeze.     No  restless  star 
Thrills  the  sky's  gray-robed  breast  with  pulsing 

rays, 
The  night's  heart  has  throbbed  out. 

No  grass  blade  stirs, 

No  downy-winged  moth  conies  flittering  by 
Caught  by  the  light  —  Thank  God,  there  is  no  light, 
No  open-eyed,  loud-voiced,  quick-motioned  light, 
Nothing  but  gloom  and  rest. 

A  row  of  trees 

Along  the  hill  horizon,  westward,  stands 
All  black  and  still,  as  if  it  were  a  rank 
Of  fallen  angels,  melancholy  met 
Before  the  amber  gate  of  Paradise  — 
The  bright  shut  gate,  whose  everlasting  smile 
Deadens  despair  to  calm. 

O,  better  far 
Better  than  bliss  is  rest  !    If  suddenly 


168  AFTER  SUNSET. 

Those  burnished  doors  of  molten  gold,  steel-barred, 
Which  the  sun  closed  behind  him  as  he  went 
Into  his  bridal  chamber  —  were  to  burst 
Asunder  with  a  clang,  and  in  a  breath 
God's   mysteries   were   revealed  —  His   kingdom 

came  — 

The  multitudes  of  heavenly  messengers 
Hastening  throughout  all  space  —  the  thunder  quire 
Of  praise  —  the  obedient  lightnings'  lambent  gleam 
Around  the  unseen  Throne  —  should  I  not  sink 
Crushed  by  the  weight  of  such  beatitudes, 
Crying,  "Rest,  only  rest,  thou  merciful  God! 
Hide  me  within  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand 
In  some  dark  corner  of  the  universe, 
Thy  bright,  full,  busy  universe,  that  blinds, 
Deafens,  and  tortures  —  Give  me  only  rest !  " 

O  for  a  soul-sleep,  long  and  deep  and  still ! 
To  lie  down  quiet  after  the  weary  day, 
Dropping  all  pleasant  flowers  from  the  numbed 

hands, 

Bidding  good-night  to  all  companions  dear, 
Drawing  the  curtains  on  this  darkened  world, 
Closing  the  eyes,  and  with  a  patient  sigh 
Murmuring  "  Our  Father  "  —  fall  on  sleep,  till 

dawn! 


THE  GARDEN- CHAIR.  169 

THE   GAKDEN-CHAIK. 

TWO  PORTRAITS. 

PLEASANT  picture,  full  of  meanings 

deep, 

Old  age,  calm  sitting  in  the  July  sun, 
On  withered  hands  half-leaning  —  fee- 
ble hands, 

That  after  their  life-labors,  light  or  hard, 
Their  girlish  broideries,  their  marriage-ringed 
Domestic  duties,  their  sweet  cradle  cares, 
Have  dropped  into  the  quiet-folded  ease 
Of  fourscore  years.     How  peacefully  the  eyes 
Face  us !     Contented,  unregretful  eyes, 
That  carry  in  them  the  whole  tale  of  life 
With  its  one  moral  —  "  Thus  all  was  —  thus  best." 
Eyes  now  so  near  unto  their  closing  mild 
They  seem  to  pierce  direct  through  all  that  maze, 
As  eyes  immortal  do. 

Here  —  Youth.     She  stands 
Under  the  roses,  with  elastic  foot 
Poised  to  step  forward ;  eager-eyed,  yet  grave 
Beneath  the  mystery  of  the  unknown  To-come, 
Though  longing  for  its  coming.     Firm  prepared 


1 70  AN   OLD  IDEA. 

(So  say  the  lifted  head  and  close,  sweet  mouth) 
For  any  future  :  though  the  dreamy  hope 
Throned  on  her  girlish  forehead,  whispers  fond, 
"  Surely  they  err  who  say  that  life  is  hard ; 
Surely  it  shall  not  be  with  me  as  these." 

God  knows  :  He  only.     And  so  best,  dear  child, 
Thou  woman-statured,  sixteen-year-old  child, 
Meet  bravely  the  impenetrable  Dark 
Under  thy  roses.     Bud  and  blossom  thou 
Fearless  as  they  —  if  thou  art  planted  safe, 
Whether  for  gathering  or  for  withering,  safe 
In  the  King's  garden. 


AN  OLD  IDEA. 


TKEAM  of  my  life,  dull,  placid  river, 

flow! 

I  have  no  fear  of  the  ingulfing  seas  : 
Neither  I  look  before  me  nor  behind, 
But,  lying  mute  with  wave-dipped  hand,  float  on. 

It  was  not  always  so.     My  brethren,  see 
This  oar-stained,  trembling  palm.     It  keeps  the 
sign 


PARABLES. 


171 


Of  youth's  mad  wrestling  with  the  waves  that  drift 
Immutably,  eternally  along. 

I  would  have  had  them  flow  through  fields  and 

flowers, 

Giving  and  taking  freshness,  perfume,  joy ; 
It  winds  through  —  here.     Be  silent,  O  my  soul ! 
—  The  finger  of  God's  wisdom  drew  its  line. 

So  I  lean  back  and  look  up  to  the  stars, 
And  count  the  ripples  circling  to  the  shore, 
And  watch  the  solemn  river  rolling  on 
Until  it  widen  to  the  open  seas. 


PARABLES. 


"  Hold  every  mortal  joy 
With  a  loose  hand." 


E  clutch  our  joys  as  children  do  their 

flowers ; 
We  look  at  them,  but  scarce  believe 

them  ours, 

Till  our  hot  palms  have  smirched  their  colors  rare 
And  crushed  their  dewy  beauty  unaware. 


I7*  PARABLES. 

But  the  wise  Gardener,  whose  they  were,  comes  by 
At  hours  when  we  expect  not,  and  with  eye 
Mournful  yet  sweet,  compassionate  though  stern, 
Takes  them. 

Then  in  a  moment  we  discern 
By  loss,  what  was  possession,  and,  half-wild 
With  misery,  cry  out  like  angry  child  : 
"  O  cruel !  thus  to  snatch  my  posy  fine !  " 
He  answers  tenderly,  "  Not  thine,  but  mine," 
And  points  to  those  stained  fingers  which  do  prove 
Our  fatal  cherishing,  our  dangerous  love ; 
At  which  we,  chidden,  a  pale  silence  keep ; 
Yet  evermore  must  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep. 
So  on  through  gloomy  ways  and  thorny  brakes, 
Quiet  and  slow,  our  shrinking  feet  he  takes 
Led  by  the  soiled  hand,  which,  laved  in  tears, 
More  and  more  clean  beneath  his  sight  appears. 
At  length  the  heavy  eyes  with  patience  shine  — 
"  I  am  content.     Thou  took'st  but  what  was  thine." 

And  then  he  us  his  beauteous  garden  shows, 
Where  bountiful  the  Rose  of  Sharon  grows  : 
Where  in  the  breezes  opening  spice-buds  swell, 
And  the  pomegranates  yield  a  pleasant  smell : 
While  to  and  fro  peace-sandalled  angels  move 
In  the  pure  air  that  they  —  not  we  —  call  Love : 
An  air  so  rare  and  fine,  our  grosser  breath 
Cannot  inhale  till  purified  by  death. 


LETT  ICE. 


173 


And  thus  we,  struck  with  longing  joy,  adore, 
And,  satisfied,  wait  mute  without  the  door, 
Until  the  gracious  Gardener  maketh  sign, 
"  Enter  in  peace.     All  this  is  mine  —  and  thine/' 


LETTICE. 

SAID  to  Lettice,  our  sister  Lettice, 
While  drooped  and  glistened  her  eye- 
lash brown, 
"  Your  man 's  a  poor  man,  a  cold  and 

dour  man, 

There 's  many  a  better  about  our  town." 
She  smiled  securely  —  "He  loves  me  purely : 

A  true  heart 's  safe,  both  in  smile  or  frown  ; 
And  nothing  harms  me  while  his  love  warms  me, 
Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down." 

"  He  comes  of  strangers,  and  they  are  rangers, 

And  ill  to  trust,  girl,  when  out  of  sight : 
Fremd  folk  may  blame  ye,  and  e'en  defame  ye,  — 

A  gown  oft  handled  looks  seldom  white." 
She  raised  serenely  her  eyelids  queenly,  — 

"  My  innocence  is  my  whitest  gown ; 
No  harsh  tongue  grieves  me  while  he  believes  me, 

Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down." 


I74  -4  SPIRIT  PRESENT. 

"  Your  man  's  a  frail  man,  was  ne'er  a  hale  man, 

And  sickness  knocketh  at  every  door, 
And  death  comes  making  bold  hearts  cower,  break- 
ing-" 

Our  Lettice  trembled;  —  but  once,  no  more. 
"  If  death  should  enter,  smite  to  the  centre 

Our  poor  home  palace,  all  crumbling  down, 
He  cannot  fright  us,  nor  disunite  us, 

Life  bears  Love's  cross,  death  brings  Love's 
crown." 


A   SPIRIT  PRESENT. 

f F,  coming  from  that  unknown  sphere 

Where  I  believe  thou  art,  — 
The  world    unseen    which  girds   our 

world 

So  close,  yet  so  apart,  — 
Thy  soul's  soft  call  unto  my  soul 

Electrical  could  reach, 
And  mortal  and  immortal  blend 
In  one  familiar  speech,  — 

What  wouldst  thou  say  to  me  ?  wouldst  ask 
What,  since  did  me  befall  ? 


A  SPIRIT  PRESENT.  175 

Or  close  this  chasm  of  cruel  years 

Between  us  —  knowing  all  ? 
Wouldst  love  me  —  thy  pure  eyes  seeing  that 

God  only  saw  beside  ? 
O,  love  me !     'T  was  so  hard  to  live, 

So  easy  to  have  died. 

If,  while  this  dizzy  whirl  of  life 

A  moment  pausing  stayed, 
I  face  to  face  with  thee  could  stand, 

I  would  not  be  afraid  : 
Not  though  from  heaven  to  heaven  thy  feet 

In  glad  ascent  have  trod, 
While  mine  took  through  earth's  miry  ways 

Their  solitary  road. 

We  could  not  lose  each  other.     World 

On  world  piled  ever  higher 
Would  part  like  banked  clouds,  lightning-cleft 

By  our  two  souls'  desire. 
Life  ne'er  divided  us  ;  death  tried, 

But  could  not ;  Love's  voice  fine 
Called  luring  through  the  dark  —  then  ceased, 

And  I  am  wholly  thine. 


176  A    WINTER    WALK. 


A  WINTER  WALK. 

[iE  never  had  believed,  I  wis, 

At  primrose  time  when  west  winds 

stole 

Like  thoughts  of  youth  across  the  soul, 
In  such  an  altered  time  as  this, 

When  if  one  little  flower  did  peep 

Up  through  the  brown  and  sullen  grass, 
We  should  just  look  on  it,  and  pass 

As  if  we  saw  it  in  our  sleep. 

Feeling  as  sure  as  that  this  ray 

Which  cottage  children  call  the  sun, 
Colors  the  pale  clouds  one  by  one,  — 

Our  touch  would  make  it  drop  to  clay. 

We  never  could  have  looked,  in  prime 
Of  April,  or  when  July  trees 
Shook  full-leaved  in  the  evening  bree 

Upon  the  face  of  this  pale  time, 

Still,  soft,  familiar ;  shining  bleak 
On  naked  branches,  sodden  ground, 
Yet  shining  —  as  if  one  had  found 

A  smile  upon  a  dead  friend's  cheek, 


A    WINTER    WALK.  177 

Or  old  friend,  lost  for  years,  had  strange 
In  altered  mien  come  sudden  back> 
Confronting  us  with  our  great  lack  — 

Till  loss  seemed  far  less  sad  than  change. 

Yet  though,  alas  !  Hope  did  not  see 

This  winter  skeleton  through  full  leaves, 
Out  of  all  bareness  Faith  perceives 

Possible  life  in  field  and  tree. 

In  bough  and  trunk  the  sap  will  move, 

And  the  mould  break  o'er  springing  flowers ; 
Nature  revives  with  all  her  powers, 

But  only  nature ;  —  never  love. 

So,  listlessly  with  linked  hands 

Both  Faith  and  Hope  glide  soft  away ; 
While  in  long  shadows,  cool  and  gray, 

The  sun  sets  o'er  the  barren  lands. 


I78         "WILL  SAIL   TO-MORROW." 


"WILL   SAIL   TO-MORROW." 

j]HE  good  ship  lies  in  the  crowded  dock, 
Fair  as  a  statue,  firm  as  a  rock  : 
Her  tall  masts  piercing  the  still  blue 

air, 

Her  funnel  glittering  white  and  bare, 
Whence  the  long  soft  line  of  vapory  smoke 
Betwixt  sky  and  sea  like  a  vision  broke, 
Or  slowly  o'er  the  horizon  curled 
Like  a  lost  hope  fled  to  the  other  world  : 
She  sails  to-morrow,  — 
Sails  to-moiTow. 

Out  steps  the  captain,  busy  and  grave, 
With  his  sailor's  footfall,  quick  and  brave, 
His  hundred  thoughts  and  his  thousand  cares, 
And  his  steady  eye  that  all  things  dares : 
Though  a  little  smile  o'er  the  kind  face  dawns 
On  the  loving  brute  that  leaps  and  fawns, 
And  a  little  shadow  comes  and  goes, 
As  if  heart  or  fancy  fled — where,  who  knows? 

He  sails  to-morrow : 

Sails  to-morrow. 

To-morrow  the  serried  line  of  ships 
Will  quick  close  after  her  as  she  slips 


"WILL  SAIL   TO-MORROW." 


179 


Into  the  unknown  deep  once  more : 
To-morrow,  to-morrow,  some  on  shore 
With  straining  eyes  shall  desperate  yearn  — 
"  This  is  not  parting  ?  return  —  return  !  " 
Peace,  wild-wrung  hands  !  hush,  sobbing  breath ! 
Love  keepeth  its  own  through  life  and  death ; 

Though  she  sails  to-morrow  — 

Sails  to-morrow. 

Sail,  stately  ship ;  down  Southampton  water 
Gliding  fair  as  old  Nereus'  daughter : 
Christian  ship  that  for  burthen  bears 
Christians,  speeded  by  Christian  prayers ; 
All  kind  angels  follow  her  track ! 
Pitiful  God,  bring  the  good  ship  back ! 
All  the  souls  in  her  forever  keep 
Thine,  living  or  dying,  awake  or  asleep : 

Then  sail  to-morrow ! 

Ship,  sail  to-morrow ! 


AT  EVEN-TIDE. 

AT  EVEN-TIDE. 

C.N.  — Died  AprU,  1857. 

HAT  spirit  is  it  that  doth  pervade 

The  silence  of  this  empty  room  ? 
And  as  I  lift  my  eyes,  what  shade 
Glides  off  and  vanishes  in  gloom  ? 

I  could  believe  this  moment  gone, 

A  known  form  filled  that  vacant  chair, 

That  those  kind  eyes  upon  me  shone 
I  never  shall  see  anywhere  ! 

The  living  are  so  far  away : 

But  thou  —  thou  seemest  strangely  near ; 
Knowest  all  my  silent  heart  would  say, 

Its  peace,  its  pain,  its  hope,  its  fear. 

And  from  thy  calm  supernal  height, 
And  wondrous  wisdom  newly  won, 

Smilest  on  all  our  poor  delight, 
And  petty  woe  beneath  the  sun. 

From  all  this  coil  thou  hast  slipped  away, 

As  softly  as  a  cloud  departs 
Along  the  hillside  purple  gray  — 

Into  the  heaven  of  patient  hearts. 


A  DEAD  SEA-GULL.  rf 

Nothing  here  suffered,  nothing  missed, 

Will  ever  stir  from  its  repose 
The  death-smile  on  her  lips  unkissed, 

Who  all  things  loves  and  all  things  knows. 

And  I,  who,  ignorant  and  weak, 
Of  love  so  helpless  —  quick  to  pain, 

With  restless  longing  ever  seek 
The  unattainable  in  vain, 

Find  it  strange  comfort  thus  to  sit 
While  the  loud  world  unheeded  rolls, 

And  clasp,  ere  yet  the  fancy  flit, 

A  friend's  hand  from  the  land  of  souls. 


A  DEAD   SEA-GULL. 

Near  Liverpool 

^|ACK-LUSTRE  eye,  and  idle  wing, 
And   smirched   breast  that   skims  no 

more, 

White  as  the  foam  itself,  the  wave  — 
Hast  thou  not  even  a  grave 
Upon  the  dreary  shore, 
Forlorn,  forsaken  thing  ? 


8a  A  DEAD  SEA- GULL. 

Thou  whom  the  deep  seas  could  not  drown, 
Nor  all  the  elements  affright, 
Flashing  like  thought  across  the  main, 
Mocking  the  hurricane, 
Screaming  with  shrill  delight 
When  the  great  ship  went  down. 

Thee  not  thy  beauty  saved,  nor  mirth, 
Nor  daring,  nor  thy  humble  lot, 
One  among  thousands  —  in  quick  haste 
Fate  clutched  thee  as  she  passed ; 
Dead  —  how,  it  matters  not : 
Corrupting,  earth  to  earth. 

And  not  a  league  from  where  it  lies 
Lie  bodies  once  as  free  from  stain, 
And  hearts  as  gay  as  this  sea-bird's, 
Whom  all  the  preachers'  words 
Will  ne'er  make  white  again, 
Or  from  the  dead  to  rise. 

Rot,  pretty  bird,  in  harmless  clay :  — 
We  sing  too  much  poetic  woes  ; 
Let  us  be  doing  while  we  can : 
Blessed  the  Christian  man 
Who  on  life's  shore  seeks  those 
Dying  of  soul  decay. 


LOOKING  EAST.  X83 

LOOKING  EAST. 

In  January,  1858. 

TLE  white  clouds,  why  are  you  flying 
Over  the  sky  so  blue  and  cold  ? 
Fair  faint  hopes,  why  are  you  lying 
Over  my  heart  like  a  white  cloud's 
fold? 


Slender  green  leaves,  why  are  you  peeping 
Out  of  the  ground  where  the  show  yet  lies  1 

Toying  west  wind,  why  are  you  creeping 
Like  a  child's  breath  across  my  eyes  ? 

Hope  and  terror  by  turns  consuming, 
Lover  and  friend  put  far  from  me,  — 

What  should  /  do  with  the  bright  spring,  coming 
Like  an  angel  over  the  sea  ? 

Over  the  cruel  sea  that  parted 

Me  from  mine  own,  and  rolls  between ;  — 
Out  of  the  woful  east,  whence  darted 

Heaven's  full  quiver  of  vengeance  keen. 

Day  teaches  day,  night  whispers  morning  — 
"  Hundreds  are  weeping  their  dead,  while  thou 


1 84  LOOKING  EAST. 

Weeping  thy  living  —  Eise,  be  adorning 

Thy  brows,  unwidowed,  with  smiles."  —  But 
how? 

O,  had  he  married  me !  —  unto  anguish, 
Hardship,  sickness,  peril,  and  pain ; 

That  on  my  breast  his  head  might  languish 
In  lonely  jungle  or  scorching  plain ; 

O,  had  we  stood  on  some  rampart  gory, 
Till  he  —  ere  Horror  behind  us  trod  — 

Kissed  me,  and  killed  me  —  so,  with  his  glory 
My  soul  went  happy  and  pure  to  God ! 

Nay,  nay,  Heaven  pardon  me !  me,  sick-hearted, 
Living  this  long,  long  life-in-death : 

Many  there  are  far  wider  parted 

Who  under  one  roof-tree  breathe  one  breath. 

But  we  that  loved  —  whom  one  word  half  broken 
Had  drawn  together  close  soul  to  soul 

As  lip  to  lip  —  and  it  was  not  spoken, 
Nor  may  be  while  the  world's  ages  roll. 

I  sit  me  down  with  my  tears  all  frozen : 
I  drink  my  cup,  be  it  gall  or  wine : 

For  I  know,  if  he  lives,  I  am  his  chosen  — 
I  know,  if  he  dies,  that  he  is  mine. 


OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY.    185 

If  love  in  its  silence  be  greater,  stronger 
Than  million  promises,  sighs,  or  tears  — 

I  will  wait  upon  Him  a  little  longer 
Who  holdeth  the  balance  of  our  years. 

Little  white  clouds,  like  angels  flying, 

Bring  the  spring  with  you  across  the  sea  — 

Loving  or  losing,  living  or  dying, 
Lord,  remember,  remember  me ! 


OVER   THE   HILLS  AND   FAR  AWAY. 

LITTLE  bird  flew  my  window  by, 
'Twixt  the  level  street  and  the  level  sky, 
The  level  rows  of  houses  tall, 
The  long  low  sun  on  the  level  wall ; 

And  all  that  the  little  bird  did  say 

Was,  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

A  little  bird  sang  behind  my  chair, 
From  the  level  line  of  corn-fields  fair, 
The  smooth  green  hedgerow's  level  bound 
Not  a  furlong  off —  the  horizon's  bound, 
And  the  level  lawn  where  the  sun  all  day 
Burns  :  —  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 


186  TOO  LATE. 

A  little  bird  sings  above  my  bed, 

And  I  know  if  I  could  but  lift  my  head 

I  would  see  the  sun  set,  round  and  grand, 

Upon  level  sea  and  level  sand, 

While  beyond  the  misty  distance  gray 

Is  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

I  think  that  a  little  bird  will  sing 

Over  a  grassy  mound,  next  spring, 

"Where  something  that  once  was  me,  ye  '11  leave 

In  the  level  sunshine,  morn  and  eve : 

But  I  shall  be  gone,  past  night,  past  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


TOO  LATE. 

"Douglas,  Douglas,  tendir  and  treu." 

HOTJLD  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas, 

Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I  'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do ;  — 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST.  187 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

0  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

.  My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 

1  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you : 
Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows  — 
I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew ; 

As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 

HE  thin  white  snow-streaks  pencilling 

That  mountain's  shoulder  gray, 
While  in  the  west  the  pale  green  sky 

Smiled  back  the  dawning  day, 
Till  from  the  misty  east  the  sun 
Was  of  a  sudden  born 


188  LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 

Like  a  new  soul  in  Paradise  — 
How  long  it  seems  since  morn ! 

One  little  hour,  O  round  red  SUD, 

And  thou  and  I  shall  come 
Unto  the  golden  gate  of  rest, 

The  open  door  of  home  : 
One  little  hour,  O  weary  sun, 

Delay  the  threatened  eve 
Till  my  tired  feet  that  pleasant  door 

Enter  and  never  leave. 

Ye  rooks  that  fly  in  slender  file 

Into  the  thick'ning  gloom, 
Ye  '11  scarce  have  reached  your  grim  gray  tower 

Ere  I  have  reached  my  home ; 
Plover,  that  thrills  the  solitude 

With  such  an  eerie  cry, 
Seek  you  your  nest  ere  night-fall  comes, 

As  my  heart's  nest  seek  I. 

O  light,  light  heart  and  heavy  feet, 

Patience  a  little  while ! 
Keep  the  warm  love-light  in  these  eyes, 

And  on  these  lips  the  smile : 
Out-speed  the  mist,  the  gathering  mist 

That  follows  o'er  the  moor  !  — 
The  darker  grows  the  world  without 

The  brighter  seems  that  door. 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 

O  door,  so  close  yet  so  far  off; 

O  mist  that  nears  and  nears ! 
What,  shall  I  faint  in  sight  of  home  ? 

Blinded  —  but  not  with  tears  — 
'T  is  but  the  mist,  the  cruel  mist, 

Which  chills  this  heart  of  mine  : 
These  eyes,  too  weak  to  see  that  light  — 

It  has  not  ceased  to  shine. 

A  little  further,  further  yet : 

The  white  mist  crawls  and  crawls ; 
It  hems  me  round,  it  shuts  me  in 

Its  great  sepulchral  walls  : 
No  earth  —  no  sky  —  no  path  —  no  light 

A  silence  like  the  tomb  : 
O  me,  it  is  too  soon  to  die  — 

And  I  was  going  home ! 

A  little  further,  further  yet : 

My  limbs  are  young,  —  my  heart  — 

0  heart,  it  is  not  only  life 
That  feels  it  hard  to  part : 

Poor  lips,  slow  freezing  into  calm, 
Numbed  hands  that  helpless  fall, 

And,  a  mile  off,  warm  lips,  fond  hands, 
Waiting  to  welcome  all ! 

1  see  the  pictures  in  the  room, 

The  figures  moving  round, 


I9o  LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 

The  very  flicker  of  the  fire 

Upon  the  patterned  ground  : 
O  that  I  were  the  shepherd-dog 

That  guards  their  happy  door ! 
Or  even  the  silly  household  cat 

That  basks  upon  the  floor ! 

O  that  I  sat  one  minute's  space 

Where  I  have  sat  so  long ! 
O  that  I  heard  one  little  word 

Sweeter  than  angel's  song ! 
A  pause  —  and  then  the  table  fills, 

The  harmless  mirth  brims  o'er ; 
While  I  —  O  can  it  be  God's  will  ?  — 

I  die,  outside  the  door. 

My  body  fails  —  my  desperate  soul 

Struggles  before  it  go  : 
The  bleak  air  's  full  of  voices  wild, 

But  not  the  voice  I  know ; 
Dim  shapes  come  wandering  through  the  dark  : 

With  mocking,  curious  stares, 
Faces  long  strange  peer  glimmering  by  — 

But  not  one  face  of  theirs. 

Lost,  lost,  and  such  a  little  way 

From  that  dear  sheltering  door ! 
Lost,  lost,  out  of  the  loving  arms 

Left  empty  evermore ! 


SEMPER  FIDELIS.  191 

His  will  be  done.     O,  gate  of  heaven, 

Fairer  than  earthly  door, 
Receive  me !  Everlasting  arms, 

Enfold  me  evermore ! 

And  so,  farewell         ***** 
What  is  this  touch 

Upon  my  closing  eyes  ? 
My  name  too,  that  I  thought  to  hear 

Next  time  in  Paradise  ? 
Warm  arms  —  close  lips  —  0,  saved,  saved,  saved ! 

Across  the  deathly  moor 
Sought,  found  —  and  yonder  through  the  night 

Shineth  the  blessed  door. 


SEMPER  FIDELIS. 

"  Mine  own  familiar  friend,  in  whom  I  trusted." 

j|HINK  you,  had  we  two  lost  fealty,  some- 
thing would  not,  as  I  sit 
With  this  book  upon  my  lap  here,  come 

and  overshadow  it  ? 
Hide  with  spectral  mists  the  pages,  under  each  fa- 
miliar leaf 

Lurk,  and  clutch  my  hand  that  turns  it  with  the 
icy  clutch  of  grief  ? 


1 92  SEMPER  FIDELIS. 

Think  you,  were  we  twain  divided,  not  by-  dis- 
tance, time,  or  aught 

That  the  world  calls  separation,  but  we  smile  at, 
better  taught, 

That  I  should  not  feel  the  dropping  of  each  link 
you  did  untwine 

Clear  as  if  you  sat  before  me  with  your  true  eyes 
fixed  on  mine? 


That  I  should  not,  did  you  crumble  as  the  other 

false  friends  do 
To  the  dust  of  broken  idols,  know  it  without  sight 

of  you, 
By  some  shadow  darkening  daylight  in  the  fickle 

skies  of  spring, 
By  foul  fears  from  household  corners  crawling  over 

everything  ? 

If  that  awful  gulf  were  opening  which  makes  two, 

however  near, 
Parted  more  than  we  were  parted,  dwelt  we  in  each 

hemisphere,  — 
Could  I  sit  here,  smiling  quiet  on  this  book  within 

my  hand, 
And  while  earth  was  cloven  beneath  me,  feel  no 

shock  nor  understand  ? 


ONE  SUMMER  MORNING. 


193 


No,  you  cannot,  could  not  alter.     No,  my  faith 

builds  safe  on  yours, 
Rock-like ;  though  the  winds  and  waves  howl,  its 

foundation  still  endures : 
By  a  man's  will  —  "  See,  I  hold  thee  :  mine  thou 

art,  and  mine  shalt  be." 
By  a  woman's  patience  —  "  Sooner  doubt  I  my 

own  soul  than  thee." 

So,  Heaven  mend  us !  we  '11  together  once  again 

take  counsel  sweet ; 
Though  this  hand  of  mine  drops  empty,  that  blank 

wall  my  blank  eyes  meet : 
Life  may  flow  on :  men  be  faithless,  —  ay,  forsooth, 

and  women  too ! 
ONE  is  true  ;  and  as  He  liveth,  I  believe  in  truth 

—  and  you. 


ONE   SUMMER  MORNING. 

f]T  is  but  a  little  while  ago : 
The  elm-leaves  have  scarcely  begun  to 

drop  away ; 
The  sunbeams  strike  the  elm-trunk  just 

where  they  struck  that  day  — 
Yet  all  seems  to  have  happened  long  ago. 
13 


I94  J/T  LOVE  ANNIE. 

And  the  year  rolleth  round,  slow,  slow : 
Autumn  will  fade  to  winter  and  winter  melt  in 

spring, 
New  life  return  again  to  every  living  thing. 

Soon,  this  will  have  happened  long  ago. 


The  bonnie  wee  flowers  will  blow ; 
The  trees  will  re-clothe  themselves,  the  birds  sing 

out  amain,  — 
But  never,  never,  never  will  the  world  look  again 

As  it  looked  before  this  happened— long  ago ! 


MY  LOVE  AXXIE. 

>FT  of  voice  and  light  of  hand 
As  the  fairest  in  the  land  — 
Who  can  rightly  understand 
My  love  Annie  ? 


Simple  in  her  thoughts  and  ways, 
True  in  every  word  she  says,  — 
Who  shall  even  dare  to  praise 
My  love  Annie  ? 


'  ~:~r 


- 


wisniic  st 


I  :  • 


196  SUMMER   GONE. 

Poor  robin,  driven  in  by  rain-storms  wild 

To  lie  submissive  under  household  hands 
With  beating  heart  that  no  love  understands, 

And  scared  eye,  like  a  child 

Who  only  knows  that  he  is  all  alone 

And  summer 's  gone ; 

Pale  leaves,  sent  flying  wide,  a  frightened  flock 
On  which  the  wolfish  wind  bursts  out,  and 

tears  * 
Those  tender  forms  that  lived  in  summer  airs 

Till,  taken  at  this  shock, 

They,  like  weak  hearts  when  sudden  grief  sweeps  by, 

Whirl,  drop,  and  die :  — 

All  these  things,  earthy,  of  the  earth  —  do  tell 
This  earth's  perpetual  story ;  we  belong 
Unto  another  country,  and  our  song 

Shall  be  no  mortal  knell ; 

Though  all  the  year's  tale,  as  our  years  run  fast, 

Mourns,  "  summer 's  past." 

0  love  immortal,  O  perpetual  youth, 

Whether  in  budding  nooks  it  sits  and  sings 
As  hundred  poets  in  a  hundred  springs, 

Or,  slaking  passion's  drouth, 

In  wine-press  of  affliction,  ever  goes 

Heavenward,  through  woes : 


SUMMER.  GONE. 


197 


O  youth  immortal  —  O  undying  love ! 

With  these  by  winter  fireside  we  '11  sit  down 
Wearing  our  snows  of  honor  like  a  crown ; 

And  sing  as  in  a  grove, 

Where  the  full  nests  ring  out  with  happy  cheer, 

"  Summer  is  here." 

Boll  round,  strange  years ;  swift  seasons,  come  and 

.    go; 

Ye  leave  upon  us  but  an  outWard  sign ; 

Ye  cannot  touch  the  inward  and  divine, 
While  God  alone  does  know ; 
There  sealed  till  summers,  winters,  all  shall  cease 
In  His  deep  peace. 

Therefore  uprouse  ye  winds  and  howl  your  will ; 

Beat,  beat,  ye  sobbing  rains  on  pane  and 
door; 

Enter,  slow-footed  age,  and  thou,  obscure, 
Grand  Angel  —  not  of*  ill ; 
Healer  of  every  wound,  where'er  thou  come, 
Glad,  we  '11  go  home. 


198  THE   VOICE   CALLING. 


THE   VOICE   CALLING. 

f]N  the  hush  of  April  weather, 
With  the  bees  in  budding  heather, 
And  the  white  clouds  floating,  floating, 

and  -the  sunshine  falling  broad : 
While  my  children  down  the  hill 
Eun  and  leap,  and  I  sit  still,  — 
Through  the  silence,  through  the  silence  art  Thou 
calling,  O  my  God  ? 

Through  my  husband's  voice  that  prayeth, 
Though  he  knows  not  what  he  sayeth, 
Is  it  Thou  who  in  Thy  Holy  Word  hast  solemn 

words  for  me  ? 
And  when  he  clasps  me  fast, 
And  smiles  fondly  o'er  the  past, 
And  talks,  hopeful,  of  tlie  future  — Lord,  do  I 
hear  only  Thee  ? 

Not  in  terror  nor  in  thunder 
Comes  Thy  voice,  although  it  sunder 
Flesh  from  spirit,  soul  from  body,  human  bliss  from 

human  pain : 

All  the  work  that  was  to  do, 
All  the  joys  so  sweet  and  new 
Which  Thou  shewed'st  me  in  a  vision  —  Moses- 
like  —  and  hid'st  again. 


THE   VOICE   CALLING.  199 

From  this  Pisgah,  lying  humbled, 
The  long  desert  where  I  stumbled, 
And  the  fair  plains  I  shall  never  reach,  seem  equal, 

clear  and  far : 

On  this  mountain-top  of  ease 
Thou  wilt  bury  me  in  peace  ; 
While  my  tribes  march  onward,  onward,  unto  Ca- 
naan and  war. 

In  my  boy's  loud  laughter  ringing, 
In  the  sigh  more  soft  than  singing 
Of  my  baby  girl  that  nestles  up  unto  this  mortal 

breast, 

After  every  voice  most  dear 
Comes  a  whisper — "Best  not  here." 
And  the  rest  Thou  art  preparing,  is  it  best,  Lord, 
is  it  best  ? 

"  Lord,  a  little,  little  longer ! " 
Sobs  the  earth-love,  growing  stronger : 
He  will  miss  me,  and  go  mourning  through  his  sol- 
itary days. 

And  heaven  were  scarcely  heaven 
If  these  lambs  which  Thou  hast  given 
Were  to  slip  out  of  our  keeping  and  be  lost  in  the 
world's  ways. 

Lord,  it  is  not  fear  of  dying 
Nor  an  impious  denying 


200  THE   WREWS  NEST. 

Of  Thy  will,  which  forevermore  on  earth,  in  heav- 
en, be  done  : 

But  the  love  that  desperate  clings 
Unto  these  my  precious  things 
In  the  beauty  of  the  daylight,  and  the  glory  of  the 
sun. 

Ah,  Thou  still  art  calling,  calling, 
With  a  soft  voice  unappalling  ; 
And  it  vibrates  in  far  circles  through  the  everlast- 
ing years ; 

When  Thou  knockest,  even  so  ! 
I  will  arise  and  go.  — 

What,  my  little  ones,  more  violets  ?  —Nay,  be  pa- 
tient —  mother  hears. 


THE  WREN'S  NEST. 

TOOK  the  wren's  nest ;  — 

Heaven  forgive  me ! 

Its  merry  architects  so  small 

Had  scarcely  finished  their  wee  hall, 
That,  empty  still,  and  neat  and  fair, 
Hung  idly  in  the  summer  air. 
The  mossy  walls,  the  dainty  door, 
Where  Love  should  enter  and  explore, 


THE   WREN'S  NEST.  2 

And  Love  sit  carolling  outside, 

And  Love  within  chirp  multiplied  ;  — 

I  took  the  wren's  nest ;  — 

Heaven  forgive  me ! 

How  many  hours  of  happy  pains 
Through  early  frosts  and  April  rains, 
How  many  songs  at  eve  and  morn 
O'er  springing  grass  and  greening  corn, 
What  labors  hard  through  sun  and  shade 
Before  the  pretty  house  was  made  ! 
One  little  minute,  only  one, 
And  she  '11  fly  back,  and  find  it  —  gone ! 

I  took  the  wren's  nest : 

Bird,  forgive  me ! 

Thou  and  thy  mate,  sans  let,  sans  fear, 
Ye  have  before  you  all  the  year, 
And  every  wood  holds  nooks  for  you, 
In  which  to  sing  and  build  and  woo ; 
One  piteous  cry  of  birdish  pain  — 
And  ye  '11  begin  your  life  again, 
And  quite  forget  the  lost,  lost  home 
In  many  a  busy  home  to  come.  — 
But  I  ?  —  Your  wee  house  keep  I  must 
Until  it  crumble  into  dust. 

I  took  the  wren's  nest : 

God  forgive  me ! 


A   CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

TUNE  —  "  God  rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen." 

rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen ;  let  noth- 
ing you  dismay, 
For  Jesus    Christ,   our   Saviour,  was 

born  on  Christmas-day. 
The  dawn  rose  red  o'er  Bethlehem,  the  stars  shone 

through  the  gray, 

When  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on 
Christmas-day. 

God  rest  ye,  little  children ;  let  nothing  you  af- 
fright, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  your  Saviour,  was  born  this  hap- 
py night  ; 

Along  the  hills  of  Galilee  the  white  flocks  sleeping 
lay, 

When  Christ,  the  Child  of  Nazareth,  was  born  on 
Christmas-day. 

God  rest  ye,  all  good  Christians  ;  upon  this  bless- 
ed morn 

The  Lord  of  all  good  Christians  was  of  a  woman 
born : 


THE  MOTHERS   VISITS.  203 

Now  all  your  sorrows  He  doth  heal,  your  sins  He 
takes  away ; 

For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on  Christ- 
mas-day. 


THE  MOTHER'S   VISITS. 

From  the  French. 

F  ONG  years  ago  she  visited  my  chamber, 
Steps  soft  and  slow,  a  taper  in  her 

hand  ; 

Her  fond  kiss  she  laid  upon  my  eyelids, 
Fair  as  an  angel  from  the  unknown  land  : 
Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I  see  ? 
Mother,  mother,  watching  over  me. 

And  yesternight  I  saw  her  cross  my  chamber, 
Soundless  as  light,  a  palm-branch  in  her  hand ; 

Her  mild  eyes  she  bent  upon  my  anguish, 
Calm  as  an  angel  from  the  blessed  land ; 

Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I  see  ? 

Mother,  mother,  art  thou  come  for  me  ? 


204      STUDENT'S  FUNERAL  HYMN. 


A   GERMAN   STUDENT'S   FUNERAL 
HYMN. 

"  Thou  shalt  call,  and  I  will  answer  Thee  :  Thou  wilt  have 
a  desire  to  the  work  of  Thine  hands." 

J|ITH   steady   march    across    the    daisy 

meadow, 

And  by  the  churchyard  wall  we  go ; 
But  leave  behind,  beneath  the  linden 

shadow, 

One,  who  no  more  will  rise  and  go  : 
Farewell,  our  brother,  here  sleeping  in  dust, 
Till  thou  shalt  wake  again,  wake  with  the  just. 

Along  the  street  where  neighbor  nods  to  neighbor, 

Along  the  ifusy  street  we  throng, 
Once  more  to  laugh,  to  live  and  love  and  labor,  — 

But  he  will  be  remembered  long  : 
Sleep  well,  our  brother,  though  sleeping  in  dust : 
Shalt  thou  not  rise  again  —  rise  with  the  just  ? 

Farewell,  true  heart  and  kindly  hand,  left  lying 
Where  wave  the  linden  branches  calm  ; 

'T  is  his  to  live,  and  ours  to  wait  for  dying, 
We  win,  while  he  has  won,  the  palm ; 

Farewell,  our  brother  !     But  one  day,  we  trust, 

Call  —  he  will  answer  Thee,  God  of  the  just. 


WESTWARD  HO!  205 


WESTWARD   HO! 

jE  should  not  sit  us  down  and  sigh, 

My  girl,  whose  brow  a  fane  appears, 
Whose  steadfast  eyes  look  royally 
Backwards    and  forwards  o'er   the 
years  — 

The  long,  long  years  of  conquered  time, 
The  possible  years  unwon,  that  slope 

Before  us  in  the  pale  sublime 

Of  lives  that  have  more  faith  than  hope. 

We  dare  not  sit  us  down  and  dream 
Fond  dreams,  as  idle  children  do  : 

My  forehead  owns  too  many  a  seam, 

And  tears  have  worn  their  channels  through 

Your  poor  thin  cheeks,  which  now  I  take 
'Twixt  my  two  hands,  caressing.     Dear, 

A  little  sunshine  for  my  sake ! 

Although  we  're  far  on  in  the  year. 

Though  all  our  violets,  sweet !  are  dead, 
The  primrose  lost  from  fields  we  knew, 

Who  knows  what  harvests  may  be  spread 
For  reapers  brave  like  me  and  you  ? 


206  WESTWARD  HO! 

Who  knows  what  bright  October  suns 
May  light  up  distant  valleys  mild, 

Where  as  our  pathway  downward  runs 
We  see  Joy  meet  us,  like  a  child 

Who,  sudden,  by  the  roadside  stands, 
To  kiss  the  travellers'  weary  brows, 

And  lead  them  through  the  twilight  lands 
Safely  unto  their  Father's  house. 

So,  we  '11  not  dream,  nor  look  back,  dear ! 

But  march  right  on,  content  and  bold, 
To  where  our  life  sets,  heavenly  clear, 

Westward,  behind  the  hills  of  gold. 


POEMS    SINCE    1860. 


OUR  FATHER'S   BUSINESS: 


HOLMAN  HUNT'S  PICTURE  OF 
TEMPLE." 


'CHRIST  IN  THE 


CHRIST-CHILD,  Everlasting,  Holy 

One, 

Sufferer  of  all  the  sorrow  of  this  world, 
Redeemer  of  the  sin  of  all  this  world, 

Who  by  Thy  death  brought'st  life  into  this  world,  — 

O  Christ,  hear  us  ! 

This,  this  is  Thou.     No  idle  painter's  dream 

Of  aureoled,  imaginary  Christ, 

Laden  with  attributes  that  make  not  God ; 

But  Jesus,  son  of  Mary ;  lowly,  wise, 

Obedient,  subject  unto  parents,  mild, 

Meek — as  the  meek  that  shall  inherit  earth, 

Pure  —  as  the  pure  in  heart  that  shall  see  God. 

O  infinitely  human,  yet  divine ! 

Half  clinging  childlike  to  the  mother  found, 


2io          OUR  FATHER'S  BUSINESS. 

Yet  half  repelling  —  as  the  soft  eyes  say, 

"  How  is  it  that  ye  sought  me  ?     Wist  ye  not 

That  I  must  be  about  my  Father's  business  1 " 

As  in  the  Temple's  splendors  mystical, 

Earth's  wisdom  hearkening  to  the  all-wise  One, 

Earth's  closest  love  clasping  the  all-loving  One, 

He  sees  far  off  the  vision  of  the  cross, 

The  Christ-like  glory  and  the  Christ-like  doom. 

Messiah !     Elder  Brother,  Priest  and  King, 
The  Son  of  God,  and  yet  the  woman's  seed ; 
Enterer  within  the  veil ;  Victor  of  death, 
And  made  to  us  first  fruits  of  them  that  sleep ; 
Saviour  and  Intercessor,  Judge  and  Lord,  — 
All  that  we  know  of  Thee,  or  knowing  not 
Love  only,  waiting  till  the  perfect  time 
"When  we  shall  know  even  as  we  are  known  — 
O  Thou  Child  Jesus,  Thou  dost  seem  to  say 
By  the  soft  silence  of  these  heavenly  eyes 
(That  rose  out  of  the  depths  of  nothingness 
Upon  this  limner's  reverent  soul  and  hand) 
We  too  should  be  about  our  Father's  business— - 
O  Christ,  hear  us !   , 

Have  mercy  on  us,  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord ! 
The  cross  Thou  borest  still  is  hard  to  bear ; 
And  awful  even  to  humblest  follower 
The  little  that  Thou  givest  each  to  do 


OUR  FATHER'S  BUSINESS.         21 1 

Of  this  Thy  Father's  business  ;  whether  it  be 

Temptation  by  the  devil  of  the  flesh, 

Or  long-linked  years  of  lingering  toil  obscure, 

Uncomforted,  save  by  the  solemn  rests 

On  mountain-tops  of  solitary  prayer ; 

Oft  ending  in  the  supreme  sacrifice, 

The  putting  off  all  garments  of  delight, 

And  taking  sorrow's  kingly  crown  of  thorn, 

In  crucifixion  of  all  self  to  Thee, 

Who  offeredst  up  Thyself  for  all  the  world. 

O  Christ,  hear  us ! 

Our  Father's  business  :  —  unto  us,  as  Thee, 

The  whole  which  this  earth-life,  this  hand-breadth 

span 

Out  of  our  everlasting  life  that  lies 
Hidden  with  Thee  in  God,  can  ask  or  need. 
Outweighing  all  that  heap  of  petty  woes  — 
To  us  a  measure  huge  —  which  angels  blow 
Out  of  the  balance  of  our  total  lot, 
As  zephyrs  blow  the  winged  dust  away. 

O  Thou  who  wert  the  Child  of  Nazareth, 
Make  us  see  only  this,  and  only  Thee, 
Who  earnest  but  to  do  thy  Father's  will, 
And  didst  delight  to  do  it.     Take  Thou  then 
Our  bitterness  of  loss,  —  aspirings  vain, 
And  anguishes  of  unfulfilled  desire, 


212     AN  AUTUMN  PSALM  FOR  1860. 

Our  joys  imperfect,  our  sublimed  despairs, 
Our  hopes,  our  dreams,  our  wills,  our  loves,  our  all, 
And  cast  them  into  the  great  crucible 
In  which  the  whole  earth,  slowly  purified, 
Runs  molten,  and  shall  run  —  the  Will  of  God. 
O  Christ,  hear  us  ! 


AN  AUTUMN  PSALM  FOR  1860. 


"  He  that  goeth  forth  weeping,  bearing  precious  seed,  shall 
doubtless  come  again  rejoicing,  bringing  his  sheaves  with 
him." 


shadow  o'er  the  silver  sea, 
That  as  in  slumber  heaves, 
No  cloud  on  the  September  sky, 


As  the  reaper  comes  rejoicing, 
Bringing  in  his  sheaves. 

Long,  long  and  late  the  spring  delayed, 
And  summer,  dank  with  rain, 

Hung  trembling  o'er  her  sunless  fruit, 
And  her  unripened  grain  ; 

And,  like  a  weary,  hopeless  life, 
Sobbed  herself  out  in  pain. 


AN  AUTUMN  PSALM  FOR  1860.     213 

So  the  year  laid  her  child  to  sleep, 

Her  beauty  half  expressed  ; 
Then  slowly,  slowly  cleared  the  skies, 

And  smoothed  the  seas  to  rest, 
And  raised  the  fields  of  yellowing  corn 

O'er  Summer's  buried  breast ; 

Till  Autumn  counterfeited  Spring 

With  such  a  flush  of  flowers, 
His  fiery- tinctured  garlands  more 

Than  mocked  the  April  bowers, 
And  airs  as  sweet  as  airs  of  June 

Brought  on  the  twilight  hours. 

O  holy  twilight,  tender,  calm ! 

O  star  above  the  sea ! 
O  golden  harvest,  gathered  in 

With  late  solemnity, 
And  thankful  joy  for  gifts  nigh  lost 

Which  yet  so  plenteous  be ;  — 

Although  the  rain-cloud  wraps  the  hill, 

And  sudden  swoop  the  leaves, 
And  the  year  nears  his  sacred  end, 

No  eye  weeps  —  no  heart  grieves  : 
For  the  reaper  came  rejoicing, 

Bringing  in  his  sheaves. 


214         IN  THE  JUNE  TWILIGHT. 


IN   THE  JUNE   TWILIGHT. 

Suggested  by  Noel  Paton's  Picture  of  "  The  Silver  Cord 
Loosed." 

the  June  twilight,  in  the  soft  gray 

twilight, 
The  yellow  sun-glow  trembling  through 

the  rainy  eve, 
As  my  love  lay  quiet,  came  the  solemn  fiat, 

"All  these  things  forever — forever  —  thou  must 
leave." 

My  love  she  sank  down  quivering,  like  a  pine  in 

tempest  shivering  — 
"  I  have  had  so  little  happiness  as  yet  beneath 

the  sun : 
I  have  called  the  shadow  sunshine,  and  the  merest 

frosty  moonshine 

I  have,  weeping,  blessed  the  Lord  for,  as  if  day- 
light had  begun ; 

"Till  He  sent  a  sudden  angel,  with  a  glorious 

sweet  evangel, 

Who  turned  all  my  tears  to  pearl-gems,  and 
crowned  me  —  so  little  worth  ; 


IN  THE  JUNE  TWILIGHT.          215 

Me!  —  and  through  the  rainy  even  changed  my 

poor  earth  into  heaven, 

Or,  by  wondrous  revelation,  brought  the  heav- 
ens down  to  earth. 

"  0  the  strangeness  of  the  feeling  !  —  O  the  infi- 
nite revealing  — 
To  think  how  God  must  love  me  to  have  made 

me  so  content ! 
Though  I  would  have  served  Him  humbly,  and 

patiently,  and  dumbly, 

Without  any  angel  standing  in  the  pathway 
that  I  went." 

In  the  June  twilight  —  in  the  lessening  twilight  — 
My  love  cried  from  my  bosom  an  exceeding  bit- 
ter cry : 
"Lord,   wait   a   little   longer,  until   my   soul   is 

stronger,  — 

0,  wait  till  Thou  hast  taught  me  to  be  content 
to  die." 

Then  the  tender  face,  all  woman,  took  a  glory 

superhuman, 
And  she  seemed  to  watch  for  something,  or  see 

some  I  could  not  see : 

From  my  arms  she  rose  full  statured,  all  transfig- 
ured, queenly  featured  — 
"As  Thy  will  is  done  in  heaven,  so  on  earth 
still  let  it  be." 


216  A  MAN1 8   WOOING. 

***** 
I  go  lonely,  I  go  lonely,  and  I  feel  that  earth  is 

only 
The  vestibule  of  palaces  whose  courts  we  never 

win: 
Yet  I  see  my  palace  shining,  where  my  love  sits, 

amaranths  twining, 

And  I  know  the  gates  stand  open,  and  I  shall 
enter  in. 


A  MAN'S  WOOING. 

OU  said,  last  night,  you  did  not  think 

In  all  the  world  of  men 
Was  one  true  lover  —  true  alike 
In  deed  and  word  and  pen ;  — 

One  knightly  lover,  constant  as 
The  old  knights,  who  sleep  sound : 

Some  women,  said  you,  there  might  be  — 
Not  one  man  faithful  found : 

Not  one  man,  resolute  to  win, 

Or,  winning,  firm  to  hold 
The  woman,  among  women  —  sought 

With  steadfast  love  and  bold. 


A  MAN'S   WOOING.  217 

Not  one  whose  noble  life  and  pure 

Had  power  so  to  control 
To  tender  humblest  loyalty 

Her  free,  but  reverent  soul, 

That  she  beside  him  gladly  moved 

As  sovereign  and  slave ; 
In  faith  unfettered,  homage  true, 

Each  claiming  what  each  gave. 

And  then  you  dropped  your  eyelids  white, 

And  stood  in  maiden  bloom 
Proud,  calm :  —  unloving  and  unloved 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

I  let  you  speak  and  ne'er  replied ; 

I  watched  you  for  a  space, 
Until  that  passionate  glow,  like  youth, 

Had  faded  from  your  face. 

No  anger  showed  I  —  nor  complaint : 
My  heart's  beats  shook  no  breath, 

Although  I  knew  that  I  had  found 
Her,  who  brings  life  or  death ; 

The  woman,  true  as  life  or  death ; 

The  love,  strong  as  these  twain, 
Against  which  seas  of  mortal  fate 

Beat  harmlessly  in  vain. 


2i8  A  MAN'S   WOOING. 

"  Not  one  true  man  " :  I  hear  it  still, 

Your  voice's  clear  cold  sound, 
Upholding  all  your  constant  swains 

And  good  knights  underground. 

"  Not  one  true  lover  "  :  —  Woman,  turn ; 

I  love  you.     Words  are  small ; 
'T  is  life  speaks  plain  :  In  twenty  years 

Perhaps  you  may  know  all. 

I  seek  you.     You  alone  I  seek : 

All  other  women,  fair, 
Or  wise,  or  good,  may  go  their  way, 

Without  my  thought  or  care. 

But  you  I  follow  day  by  day, 

And  night  by  night  I  keep 
My  heart's  chaste  mansion  lighted,  where 

Your  image  lies  asleep. 

Asleep  !     If  e'er  to  wake,  He  knows 

Who  Eve  to  Adam  brought, 
As  you  to  me :  the  embodiment 

Of  boyhood's  dear  sweet  thought, 

And  youth's  fond  dream,  and  manhood's  hope, 

That  still  half  hopeless  shone ; 
Till  every  rootless  vain  ideal 

Commingled  into  one,  — 


A  MAN'S    WOOING.  219 

You;  who  are  so  diverse  from  me, 

And  yet  as  much  my  own 
As  this  my  soul,  which,  formed  apart, 

Dwells  in  its  bodily  throne ;  — 

Or  rather,  for  that  perishes, 

As  these  our  two  lives  are 
So  strangely,  marvellously  drawn 

Together  from  afar; 

Till  week  by  week  and  month  by  month 

We  closer  seem  to  grow, 
As  two  hill  streams,  flushed  with  rich  rain, 

Each  into  the  other  flow. 

(    I  swear  no  oaths,  I  tell  no  lies, 

Nor  boast  I  never  knew 
A  love-dream  —  we  all  dream  in  youth  — 
But  waking,  I  found  you,  \ 

The  real  woman,  whose  first  touch 

Aroused  to  highest  life 
My  real  manhood.     Crown  it  then, 

Good  angel,  friend,  love,  wife ! 

Imperfect  as  I  am,  and  you, 

Perchance,  not  all  you  seem, 
We  two  together  shall  bind  up 

Our  past's  bright,  broken  dream. 


20  A  MAN'S    WOOING. 

We  two  together  shall  dare  look 

Upon  the  years  to  come, 
As  travellers,  met  in  far  countrie, 

Together  look  towards  home. 

Come  home !     The  old  tales  were  not  false, 

Yet  the  new  faith  is  true ; 
Those  saintly  souls  who  made  men  knights 

"Were  women  such  as  you. 

For  the  great  love  that  teaches  love 

Deceived  not,  ne'er  deceives  : 
And  she  who  most  believes  in  man 

Makes  him  what  she  believes. 

Come !     If  you  come  not,  I  can  wait ; 

My  faith,  like  life,  is  long ; 
My  will  —  not  little ;  my  hope  much  : 
The  patient  are  the  strong. 

Yet  come,  ah  come  !  The  years  run  fast, 
And  hearths  grow  swiftly  cold  — 

Hearts  too :  but  while  blood  beats  in  mine 
It  holds  you  and  will  hold. 

And  so  before  you  it  lies  bare,  — 

Take  it  or  let  it  lie, 
It  is  an  honest  heart ;  and  yours 

To  all  eternity. 


THE   CATHEDRAL    TOMBS. 


THE   CATHEDKAL  TOMBS. 

"  Post  tempestatem  tranquillitas." 

Epitaph  in  Ely  Cathedral. 

j]HEY  lie,  with  upraised  hands,  and  feet 
Stretched  like  dead  feet  that  walk  no 

more, 

And  stony  masks  oft  human  sweet, 
As  if  the  olden  look  each  wore, 
Eamiliar  curves  of  lip  and  eye, 
Were  wrought  by  some  fond  memory. 

All  waiting  :  the  new-coffined  dead, 

The  handful  of  mere  dust  that  lies 
Sarcophagused  in  stone  and  lead 

Under  the  weight  of  centuries  : 
Knight,  cardinal,  bishop,  abbess  mild, 
With  last  week's  buried  year-old  child. 

After  the  tempest  cometh  peace, 

After  long  travail  sweet  repose ; 
These  folded  palms,  these  feet  that  cease 

Erom  any  motion,  are  but  shows 
Of — what?    What  rest?    How  rest  they  ?    Where? 
The  generations  naught  declare. 


222  THE  CATHEDRAL   TOMBS. 

Dark  grave,  unto  whose  brink  we  come, 
Drawn  nearer  by  all  nights  and  days ; 

Each  after  each,  thy  solemn  gloom 
We  pierce  with  momentary  gaze, 

Then  go,  unwilling  or  content, 

The  way  that  all  our  fathers  went. 

Is  there  no  voice  or  guiding  hand 

Arising  from  the  awful  void, 
To  say,  "  Fear  not  the  silent  land ; 

Would  He  make  aught  to  be  destroyed  ? 
Would  He  ?  or  can  He  ?  What  know  we 
Of  Him  who  is  Infinity  ? 

Strong  Love,  which  taught  us  human  love, 
Helped  us  to  follow  through  all  spheres 

Some  soul  that  did  sweet  dead  lips  move, 
Lived  in  dear  eyes  in  smiles  and  tears, 

Love  —  once  so  near  our  flesh  allied, 

That  "  Jesus  wept "  when  Lazarus  died ;  — 

Eagle-eyed  Faith  that  can  see  God, 
In  worlds  without  and  heart  within ; 

In  sorrow  by  the  smart  o'  the  rod, 
In  guilt  by  the  anguish  of  the  sin  ; 

In  everything  pure,  holy,  fair, 

God  saying  to  man's  soul,  "  I  am  there  " ;  — 


WHEN  GREEN  LEAVES  COME  AGAIN.   223 

These  only,  twin-archangels,  stand 
Above  the  abyss  of  common  doom, 

These  only  stretch  the  tender  hand 
To  us  descending  to  the  tomb, 

Thus  making  it  a  bed  of  rest 

With  spices  and  with  odors  drest. 

So,  like  one  weary  and  worn,  who  sinks 
To  sleep  beneath  long  faithful  eyes, 

Who  asks  no  word  of  love,  but  drinks 
The  silence  which  is  paradise  — 

We  only  cry  —  "  Keep  angelward, 

And  give  us  good  rest,  O  good  Lord ! " 


WHEN  GKEEN  LEAVES  COME  AGAIN. 

SONG. 

HEN  green  leaves  come  again,  my  love, 

When  green  leaves  come  again,  — 
Why  put  on  such  a  cloudy  face, 
When  green  leaves  come  again  ? 

"  Ah,  this  spring  will  be  like  the  last, 
Of  promise  false  and  vain ; 


WHEN  GREEN  LEAVES  COME  AGAIN. 

And  summer  die  in  winter's  arms 
Ere  green  leaves  come  again. 

"  So  slip  the  seasons  —  and  our  lives  : 

'T  is  idle  to  complain  : 
But  yet  I  sigh,  I  scarce  know  why, 

"When  green  leaves  come  again." 

Nay,  lift  up  thankful  eyes,  my  sweet ! 

Count  equal,  loss  and  gain : 
Because,  as  long  as  the  world  lasts, 

Green  leaves  will  come  again. 

For,  sure  as  earth  lives  under  snows, 

And  Love  lives  under  pain, 
'T  is  good  to  sing  with  everything, 

"  When  green  leaves  come  again." 


THE  FIRST  WAITS.  225 


THE  FIEST  WAITS. 

A  MEDITATION  FOR  ALL. 

•r 

),  Christmas  is  here  again  !  — 

While  the  house  sleeps,  quiet  as  death, 
'Neath  the  midnight  moon  comes  the 

Waits'  shrill  tune, 
And  we  listen  and  hold  our  breath. 

The  Christmas  that  never  was  — 

On  this  foggy  November  air, 
With  clear  pale  gleam,  like  the  ghost  of  a  dream, 

It  is  painted  everywhere. 

The  Christmas  that  might  have  been  — 

It  is  borne  in  the  far-off  sound, 
Down  the  empty  street,  with  the  tread  of  feet 

That  lie  silent  underground. 

The  Christmas  that  yet  may  be  — 
Like  the  Bethlehem  star,  leads  kind  : 

Yet  our  life  slips  past,  hour  by  hour,  fast,  fast, 
Few  before  —  and  many  behind. 

The  Christmas  we  have  and  hold, 
With  a  tremulous  tender  strain, 
15 


226  DAY  BY  DAY. 

Half  joy,  half  fears  —  Be  the  psalm  of  the  years, 
"  Grief  passes,  blessings  remain ! " 

The  Christmas  that  sure  will  come, 

Let  us  think  of,  at  fireside  fair ;  — 
When  church  bells  sound  o'er  one  small  green 

mound, 
Which  the  neighbors  pass  to  prayer. 

The  Christmas  that  God  will  give,  — 

Long  after  all  these  are  o'er, 
When  is  day  nor  night,  for  the  LAMB  is  our  Light, 

And  we  live  forevermore. 


DAY  BY  DAY. 

VERY  day  has  its  dawn, 
Its  soft  and  silent  eve, 
Its  noontide  hours  of  bliss  or  bale ;  - 
Why  should  we  grieve  ? 


Why  do  we  heap  huge  mounds  of  years 

Before  us  and  behind, 
And  scorn  the  little  days  that  pass 

Like  angels  on  the  wind  ? 


DAY  BY  DAY.  227 

Each  turning  round  a  small  sweet  face 

As  beautiful  as  near ; 
Because  it  is  so  small  a  face 

We  will  not  see  it  clear : 

We  will  not  clasp  it  as  it  flies, 

And  kiss  its  lips  and  brow : 
We  will  not  bathe  our  wearied  souls 

In  its  delicious  Now. 

And  so  it  turns  from  us,  and  goes 

Away  in  sad  disdain : 
Though  we  would  give  our  lives  for  it, 

It  never  comes  again. 

Yet,  every  day  has  its  dawn, 

Its  noontide  and  its  eve : 
Live  while  we  live,  giving  God  thanks  — 

He  will  not  let  us  grieve. 


228  ONLY  A    WOMAN. 


ONLY  A  WOMAN. 


"  She  loves  with  love  that  cannot  tire  : 
And  if,  ah,  woe  !  she  loves  alone, 
Through  passionate  duty  love  flames  higher, 
As  grass  grows  taller  round  a  stone." 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 

,  the  truth  's  out.     I  '11  grasp  it  like  a 

snake,  — 
It  will  not  slay  me.     My  heart  shall  not 

break 
Awhile,  if  only  for  the  children's  sake. 

For  his  too,  somewhat.     Let  him  stand  unblamed ; 
None  say,  he  gave  me  less  than  honor  claimed, 
Except — one  trifle  scarcely  worth  being  named  — 

The    heart.     That 's    gone.     The    corrupt    dead 

might  be 

As  easily  raised  up,  breathing  —  fair  to  see, 
As  he  could  bring  his  whole  heart  back  to  me. 

I  never  sought  him  in  coquettish  sport, 
Or  courted  him  as  silly  maidens  court, 
And  wonder  when  the  longed-for  prize  falls  short. 


ONLY  A   WOMAN.  229 

I  only  loved  him  —  any  woman  would : 
But  shut  my  love  up  till  he  came  and  sued, 
Then  poured  it  o'er  his  dry  life  like  a  flood. 

I  was  so  happy  I  could  make  him  blest ! 

So  happy  that  I  was  his  first  and  best, 

As  he  mine  —  when  he  took  me  to  his  breast. 

Ah  me !  if  only  then  he  had  been  true ! 

If  for  one  little  year,  a  month  or  two, 

He  had  given  me  love  for  love,  as  was  my  due ! 

Or  had  he  told  me,  ere  the  deed  was  done, 
He  only  raised  me  to  his  heart's  dear  throne  — 
Poor  substitute  —  because  the  queen  was  gone ! 

O,  had  he  whispered,  when  his  sweetest  kiss 
Was  warm  upon  my  mouth  in  fancied  bliss, 
He  had  kissed  another  woman  even  as  this,  — 

It  were  less  bitter !     Sometimes  I  could  weep 
To  be  thus  cheated,  like  a  child  asleep  :  — 
Were  not  my  anguish  far  too  dry  and  deep. 

So  I  built  my  house  upon  another's  ground ; 
Mocked  with  a  heart  just  caught  at  the  rebound  — 
A  cankered  thing  that  looked  so  firm  and  sound. 


230  ONLY  A   WOMAN. 

And  when  that  heart  grew  colder  —  colder  still, 
I,  ignorant,  tried  all  duties  to  fulfil, 
Blaming  my  foolish  pain,  exacting  will, 

All  —  anything  but  him.     It  was  to  be  : 
The  full  draught  others  drink  up  carelessly 
Was  made  this  bitter  Tantalus-cup  for  me. 

I  say  again  —  he  gives  me  all  I  claimed, 
I  and  my  children  never  shall  be  shamed : 
He  is  a  just  man  —  he  will  live  unblamed. 

Only  —  O  God,  O  God,  to  cry  for  bread, 
And  get  a  stone !  Daily  to  lay  my  head 
Upon  a  bosom  where  the  old  love 's  dead ! 

Dead  ?  — Fool !     It  never  lived.     It  only  stirred 
Galvanic,  like  an  hour-cold  corpse.     None  heard  : 
So  let  me  bury  it  without  a  word. 

He  '11  keep  that  other  woman  from  my  sight. 
I  know  not  if  her  face  be  foul  or  bright ; 
I  only  know  that  it  was  his  delight — 

As  his  was  mine  : '  I  only  know  he  stands 
Pale,  at  the  touch  of  their  long-severed  hands, 
Then  to  a  flickering  smile  his  lips  commands, 


ONLY  A   WOMAN.  23l 

Lest  I  should  grieve,  or  jealous  anger  show. 

He  need  not.     When  the  ship 's  gone  down,  I  trow, 

We  little  reck  whatever  wind  may  blow. 

And  so  my  silent  moan  begins  and  ends. 

No  world's  laugh  or  world's  taunt,  no  pity  of 

friends 
Or  sneer  of  foes  with  this  my  torment  blends. 

None  knows  — none  heeds.     I  have  a  little  pride ; 
Enough  to  stand  up,  wife-like,  by  his  side, 
With  the  same  smile  as  when  I  was  a  bride. 

And  I  shall  take  his  children  to  my  arms ; 

They  will  not  miss  these  fading,  worthless  charms ; 

Their  kiss  —  ah !  unlike  his  —  all  pain  disarms. 

And  haply,  as  the  solemn  years  go  by, 

He  will  think  sometimes  with  regretful  sigh, 

The  other  woman  was  less  true  than  I. 


232      A  "MERCENARY"  MARRIAGE. 


A   "MERCENARY"   MARRIAGE. 

HE  moves  as  light  across  the  grass 

As  moves  my  shadow  large  and  tall ; 
And  like  my  shadow,  close  yet  free, 
The  thought  of  her  aye  follows  me, 
My  little  maid  of  Moreton  Hall. 

No  matter  how  or  where  we  loved, 
Or  when  we  '11  wed,  or  what  befall ; 

I  only  feel  she  's  mine  at  last, 

I  only  know  I  '11  hold  her  fast, 

Though  to  dust  crumbles  Moreton  Hall. 

Her  pedigree  — good  sooth,  'tis  long! 

Her  grim  sires  stare  from  every  wall ; 
And  centuries  of  ancestral  grace 
Revive  in  her  sweet  girlish  face, 

As  meek  she  glides  through  Moreton  Hall. 

Whilst  I  have  —  nothing  ;  save,  perhaps, 

Some  worthless  heaps  of  idle  gold, 
And  a  true  heart  —  the  which  her  eye 
Through  glittering  dross  spied,  womanly, 
Therefore  they  say  her  heart  was  sold ! 


A  "  MERCENARY"  MARRIAGE.      233 

I  laugh  —  she  laughs  —  the  hills  and  vales 

Laugh  as  we  ride  'neath  chestnuts  tall, 
Or  start  the  deer  that  silent  graze, 
And  look  up,  large-eyed,  with  soft  gaze, 
At  the  fair  maid  of  Moreton  Hall ;  — 

We  let  the  neighbors  talk  their  fill, 

For  life  is  sweet,  and  love  is  strong, 
And  two,  close  knit  in  marriage  ties, 
The  whole  world's  shams  may  well  despise,  — 
Its  folly,  madness,  shame,  and  wrong. 

We  are  not  proud,  with  a  fool's  pride, 
Nor  cowards  —  to  be  held  in  thrall 
By  pelf  or  lineage,  rank  or  lands :  — 
One  honest  heart,  two  honest  hands, 
Are  worth  far  more  than  Moreton  Hall. 

Therefore,  we  laugh  to  scorn  —  we  two  — 

The  bars  that  weaker  souls  appal : 
I  take  her  hand,  and  hold  it  fast  — 
Knowing  she  '11  love  me  to  the  last  — 
My  dearest  maid  of  Moreton  Hall. 


a34  OVER   THE  HILLSIDE. 


OVER   THE   HILLSIDE. 


AREWELL.     In  dimmer  distance 

I  watch  your  figures  glide, 
Across  the  sunny  moorland, 
The  brown  hillside ; 


Each  momently  up  rising 
Large,  dark  against  the  sky, 

Then  —  in  the  vacant  moorland, 
Alone  sit  I. 

Within  the  unknown  country 
Where  your  lost  footsteps  pass, 

What  beauty  decks  the  heavens 
And  clothes  the  grass ! 

Over  the  mountain  shoulder 
What  glories  may  unfold  ! 

Though  I  see  but  the  mountain 
Bleak,  bare  and  cold,  — : 

And  the  white  road,  slow  winding 
To  where,  each  after  each, 

You  slipped  away  —  ah,  whither  ? 
I  cannot  reach. 


OVER   THE  HILLSIDE.  235 

And  if  I  call,  what  answers  ? 

Only  'twixt  earth,  and  sky, 
Like  wail  of  parting  spirit, 

The  curlew's  cry. 


Yet,  sunny  is  the  moorland, 
And  soft  the  pleasant  air, 

And  little  flowers  like  blessings, 
Grow  everywhere. 

While,  over  all,  the  mountain 
Stands  sombre,  calm,  and  still, 

Immutable  and  steadfast, 
As  the  One  Will. 

Which,  done  on  earth,  in  heaven 

Eternally  confessed 
By  men  and  saints  and  angels, 

Be  ever  blest ! 

Under  its  infinite  shadow 
(Safer  than  light  of  ours !) 

I  '11  sit  me  down  a  little, 
And  gather  flowers. 

Then  I  will  rise  and  follow 

After  the  setting  day, 
Without  one  wish  to  linger,  — 

The  appointed  way. 


236  THE   UNFINISHED  BOOK. 


THE   UNFINISHED   BOOK. 

jjAKE  it,  reader,  idly  passing, 
This,  like  other  idle  lines ; 
Take  it,  critic,  great  at  classing 
Subtle  genius  and  its  signs  : 

But,  O  reader,  be  thou  dumb ; 

Critic,  let  no  sharp  wit  come ; 

For  the  hand  that  wrote  and  blurred 

Will  not  write  another  word ; 

And  the  soul  you  scorn  or  prize, 

Now  than  angels  is  more  wise. 

Take  it,  heart  of  man  or  woman, 
This  unfinished  broken  strain, 

Whether  it  be  poor  and  common 
Or  the  noblest  work  of  brain ; 

Let  that  good  heart  only  sit 

Now  in  judgment  over  it 

Tenderly,  as  we  would  read,  — 

Any  one,  of  any  creed, 

Any  churchyard  passing  by,  — 

"  Sacred  to  the  Memory" 

Wholly  sacred :  even  as  lingers 
Final  word,  or  last  look  cast. 


THE   UNFINISHED  BOOK.  237 

Or  last  clasp  of  life-warm  fingers, 

Which  we  knew  not  was  the  last. 
Or,  as  we  apart  do  lay, 
The  day  after  funeral-day, 
Their  dear  relics,  great  and  small, 
Who  need  nothing  —  yet  win  all : 
All  the  best  we  had  and  have, 
Buried  in  one  silent  grave. 

All  our  highest  aspirations, 

And  our  closest  love  of  loves ; 
Our  most  secret  resignations, 

Our  best  work  that  man  approves, 
Yet  which  jealously  we  keep 
In  our  mute  heart's  deepest  deep. 
So  of  this  poor  broken  song 
Let  no  echoes  here  prolong : 
For  the  singer's  voice  is  known 
In  the  heaven  of  heavens  alone. 


238         TWILIGHT  IN  THE  NORTH. 

TWILIGHT  IN  THE  NORTH. 

"Until  the  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee  away." 

THE  long  northern  twilight  between 

the  day  and  the  night, 
When  the  heat  and  the  weariness  of 

the  world  are  ended  quite : 
When  the  hills  grow  dim  as  dreams,  and  the  crys- 
tal river  seems 

Like  that  River  of  Life  from  out  the  Throne  where 
the  blessed  walk  in  white. 

O  the  weird  northern  twilight,  which  is  neither 
night  nor  day, 

When  the  amber  wake  of  the  long-set  sun  still 
marks  his  western  way  : 

And  but  one  great  golden  star  in  the  deep  blue 
east  afar 

Warns  of  sleep,  and  dark,  and  midnight  —  of  ob- 
livion and  decay. 

O  the  calm  northern  twilight,  when  labor  is  all 

done, 
And  the  birds  in  drowsy  twitter  have  dropped 

silent  one  by  one  : 


TWILIGHT  IN   THE  NORTH.        239 

And  nothing  stirs  or  sighs  in  mountains,  waters, 

skies,  — 
Earth  sleeps  —  but  her  heart  waketh,  till  the  rising 

of  the  sun. 

O  the  sweet,  sweet  twilight,  just  before  the  time 

of  rest, 
When  the  black  clouds  are  driven  away,  and  the 

stormy  winds  suppressed  : 
And  the  dead  day  smiles  so  bright,  filling  earth 

and  heaven  with  light,  — 
You  would  think  't  was  dawn  come  back  again  — 

but  the  light  is  in  the  west. 

O  the  grand  solemn  twilight,  spreading  peace  from 
pole  to  pole !  — 

Ere  the  rains  sweep  o'er  the  hillsides,  and  the  wa- 
ters rise  and  roll, 

In  the  lull  and  the  calm,  come,  0  angel  with  the 
palm-r- 

In  the  still  nor.thern  twilight,  Azrael,  take  my 
soul. 


240  CATEAIR  FHARGUS. 

CATHAIK   FHAKGUS. 

(FERGUS'S  SEAT.) 

A  mountain  in  the  Island  of  Arran,  the  summit  of  which 
resembles  a  gigantic  human  profile. 

pTH  face  turned  upward  to  the  change- 
ful sky, 

I,  Fergus,  lie,  supine  in  frozen  rest; 
The  maiden  morning  clouds  slip  rosily 
Unclasped,    unclasping,   down    my    granite 

breast ; 
The  lightning  strikes  my  brow  and  passes  by. 

There  's  nothing  new  beneath  the  sun,  I  wot : 

I,  "  Fergus  "  called,  —  the  great  pre-Adamite, 

Who  for  my  mortal  body  blindly  sought 
Rash  immortality,  and  on  this  height 

Stone-bound,  forever  am  and  yet  am  not,  — 

There 's  nothing  new  beneath  the  sun,  I  say. 

Ye  pigmies  of  a  later  race,  who  come 
And  play  out  your  brief  generation's  play 

Below  me,  know,  I  too  spent  my  life's  sum, 
And  revelled  through  my  short  tumultuous  day. 


CATEAIR  FHARGUS. 


241 


O,  what  is  man  that  he  should  mouth  so  grand 
Through  his  poor  thousand  as   his  seventy 
years  ? 

Whether  as  king  I  ruled  a  trembling  land, 

Or  swayed  by  tongue  or  pen  my  meaner  peers, 

Or  earth's  whole  learning  once  did  understand,  — 

What  matter  ?     The  star-angels  know  it  all. 

They  who  came  sweeping  through  the  silent 

night 
And  stood  before  me,  yet  did  not  appal : 

Till,  fighting  'gainst  me  in  their  courses  bright,* 
Celestial  smote  terrestrial.  —  Hence,  my  fall. 

Hence,  Heaven  cursed  me  with  a  granted  prayer ; 

Made  my  hill-seat  eternal :  bade  me  keep 
My  pageant  of  majestic  lone  despair, 

While  one  by  one  into  the  infinite  deep 
Sank  kindred,  realm,  throne,  world :  yet  I  lay 
there. 

There  still  I  lie.     Where  are  my  glories  fled  ? 

My  wisdom  that  I  boasted  as  divine  ? 
My  grand  primeval  women  fair,  who  shed 

Their  whole  life's  joy  to  crown  one  hour  of 

mine, 
And  lived  to  curse  the  love  they  coveted  ? 

*  "  The  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera." 
16 


242  CATHAIR  FHARGUS. 

Gone  —  gone.  Uncounted  aeons  have  rolled  by, 
And  still  my  ghost  sits  by  its  corpse  of  stone, 

And  still  the  blue  smile  of  the  new-formed  sky 
Finds  me  unchanged.     Slow  centuries  crawl- 
ing on 

Bring  myriads  happy  death  :  —  I  cannot  die. 

My  stone  shape  mocks  the  dead  man's  peaceful 

face, 
And  straightened  arm  that  will   not  labor 

more; 
And  yet  I  yearn  for  a  mean  six-foot  space 

To  moulder  in,  with  daisies  growing  o'er, 
Bather  than  this  unearthly  resting-place ;  — 

Where  pinnacled,  my  silent  effigy 

Against  the  sunset  rising  clear  and  cold, 

Startles  the  musing  stranger  sailing  by, 

And  calls  up  thoughts  that  never  can  be  told, 

Of  life,  and  death,  and  immortality. 

While  I?  —I  watch  this  after  world  that  creeps 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  feet  of  God : 

Ay,  though  it  labors,  struggles,  sins,  and  weeps, 
Yet,  love-drawn,  follows  ever  Him  who  trod 

Through  dim  Gethsemane  to  Cavalry's  steeps. 

O  glorious  shame  !     O  royal  servitude ! 
High  lowliness,  and  ignorance  all-wise ! 


CATHAIR  FHARGUS.  243 

Pure  life  with  death,  and  death  with  life  imbued ;  — 
My  centuried  splendors  crumble  'neath  Thine 

eyes, 
Thou  Holy  One  who  died  upon  the  Kood ! 

Therefore,  face  upward  to  the  Christian  heaven, 
I,  Fergus,  lie  :  expectant,  humble,  calm ; 

Dumb  emblem  of  the  faith  to  me  not  given ; 

The  clouds  drop  chrism,  the  stars  their  mid- 
night psalm 

Chant  over  one,  who  passed  away  unshriven. 

"  I  am  ike  Resurrection  and  the  Life" 

So  from  yon  mountain  graveyard  cries  the 

dust 
Of  child  to  parent,  husband  unto  wife, 

Consoling,  and  believing  in  the  Just :  — 
Christ  lives,  though  all  the  universe  died  in  strife. 

Therefore  my  granite  lips  forever  pray, 

"  O  rains,  wash  out  my  sin  of  self  abhorred  : 

O  sun,  melt  thou  my  heart  of  stone  away, 

Out  of  Thy  plenteous  mercy  save  me,  Lord." 

And  thus  I  wait  till  Resurrection-day. 


244  A   TRUE  HERO. 

A   TRUE  HERO. 

JAMES  BRAID  WOOD :    Died  June  22,  1861. 


OT   at   the   battle   front,  —  writ  of  .in 

story ; 

Not  on  the  blazing  wreck  steering  to 
glory; 


Not  while  in  martyr-pangs  soul  and  flesh  sever, 
Died  he — this  Hero  new;  hero  forever. 

No  pomp  poetic  crowned,  no  forms  enchained  him, 
No  friends  applauding  watched,  no  foes  arraigned 
him: 

Death    found    him  there,   without  grandeur  or 

beauty, 
Only  an  honest  man  doing  his  duty : 

Just  a  God-fearing  man,  simple  and  lowly, 
Constant  at  kirk  and  hearth,  kindly  as  holy : 

Death  found  —  and  touched  him  with  finger  in 

flying  :  — 
Lo  !  he  rose  up  complete  —  hero  undying. 


AT   THE  SEASIDE. 


245 


Now,  all  men  mourn  for  him,  lovingly  raise  him 
Up  from  his  life  obscure,  chronicle,  praise  him ; 

Tell  his  last  act,  done  midst  peril  appalling, 
And  the  last  word  of  cheer  from  his  lips  falling ; 

Follow  in  multitudes  to  his  grave's  portal ; 
Leave  him  there,  buried  in  honor  immortal. 

So  many  a  Hero  walks  unseen  beside  us, 

Till  comes  the  supreme  stroke  sent  to  divide  us. 

Then  the  LORD  calls  His  own,  —  like  this  man, 

even, 
Carried,  Elijah-like,  fire-winged,  to  heaven. 


AT   THE   SEASIDE. 


SOLITARY  shining  sea 
That  ripples  in  the  sun, 

0  gray  and  melancholy  sea, 
O'er  which  the  shadows  run ; 


O  many-voiced  and  angry  sea, 

Breaking  with  moan  and  strain,  — 


AT  THE  SEASIDE. 

I,  like  a  humble,  chastened  child, 
Come  back  to  thee  again ; 

And  build  child-castles  and  dig  moats 

Upon  the  quiet  sands, 
And  twist  the  cliff-convolvulus 

Once  more,  round  idle  hands ; 

And  look  across  that  ocean  line, 

As  o'er  life's  summer  sea, 
Where  many  a  hope  went  sailing  once, 

Full  set,  with  canvas  free. 

Strange,  strange  to  think  how  some  of  them 

Their  silver  sails  have  furled, 
And  some  have  whitely  glided  down 

Into  the  under  world; 

And  some,  dismasted,  tossed  and  torn, 

Put  back  in  port  once  more, 
Thankful  to  ride,  with  freight  still  safe, 

At  anchor  near  the  shore. 

Stranger  it  is  to  lie  at  ease 
As  now,  with  thoughts  that  fly 

More  light  and  wandering  than  sea-birds 
Between  the  waves  and  sky : 


AT   THE  SEASIDE. 

To  play  child's  play  with  shells  and  weeds, 

And  view  the  ocean  grand 
Sunk  to  one  wave  that  may  submerge 

A  baby-house  of  sand ; 

And  not  once  look,  or  look  by  chance, 
With  old  dreams  quite  supprest, 

Across  that  mystic  wild  sea-world 
Of  infinite  unrest. 

O  ever  solitary  sea, 

Of  which  we  all  have  found 
Somewhat  to  dream  or  say,  —  the  type 

Of  things  without  a  bound  — 

Love,  long  as  life,  and  strong  as  death ; 

Faith,  humble  as  sublime ; 
Eternity,  whose  large  depths  hold 

The  wrecks  of  this  small  Time ;  — 

Unchanging,  everlasting  sea ! 

To  spirits  soothed  and  calm 
Thy  restless  moan  of  other  years 
:     Becomes  an  endless  psalm. 


247 


248    FISHERMEN— NOT  OF  GALILEE. 

FISHERMEN— NOT   OF   GALILEE. 

(After  reading  a  certain  book.) 

fflEY  have  toiled  all  the  night,  the  long 

weary  night, 
They  have  toiled  all  the  night,  Lord, 

and  taken  nothing :  — 
The  heavens  are  as  brass,  and  all  flesh  seems  as 

grass, 
Death  strikes  with  horror  and  life  with  loathing. 

Walk'st  Thou  by  the  waters,  the  dark  silent 
waters, 

The  fathomless  waters  that  no  line  can  plumb  ? 
Art  Thou  Redeemer,  or  a  mere  schemer — 

Preaching  a  kingdom  that  cannot  come  ? 

Not  a  word  say'st   Thou :   no  wrath  betray'st 

Thou: 

Scarcely  delay'st  Thou  their  terrors  to  lull ; 
On  the  shore  standing,  mutely  commanding, 
"Let  down  your  nets!" — And  they  draw  them 
up,  — full! 


THE  GOLDEN  ISLAND.  249 

Jesus,  Redeemer,  —  only  Redeemer ! 

I,  a  poor  dreamer,  lay  hold  upon  Thee : 
Thy  will  pursuing,  though  no  end  viewing, 

But  simply  doing  as  Thou  biddest  me. 

Though  Thee  I  see  not,  —  either  light  be  not, 
Or  Thou  wilt  free  not  the  scales  from  mine 
eyes, 

I  ne'er  gainsay  Thee,  but  only  obey  Thee ; 
Obedience  is  better  than  sacrifice. 

Though  on  my  prison  gleams  no  open  vision, 

Walking  Elysian  by  Galilee's  tide, 
Unseen,  I  feel  Thee,  and  death  will  reveal  Thee : 

I  shall  wake  in  Thy  likeness,  satisfied. 


THE   GOLDEN  ISLAND:    ARRAN  FROM 
AYR. 


EEP  set  in  distant  seas  it  lies ; 

The  morning  vapors  float  and  fall, 
The  noonday  clouds  above  it  rise, 
Then  drop  as  white  as  virgin's  pall. 


And  sometimes,  when  that  shroud  uplifts, 
The  far  green  fields  show  strange  and  fair; 


250  THE  GOLDEN  ISLAND. 

Mute  waterfalls  in  silver  rifts 
Sparkle  adown  the  hillside  bare. 

Bat  ah !  mists  gather,  more  and  more ; 

And  though  the  blue  sky  has  no  tears, 
And  the  sea  laughs  with  light  all  o'er,  — 

The  lovely  Island  disappears. 

O  vanished  Island  of  the  blest ! 

O  dream  of  all  things  pure  and  high ! 
Hid  in  deep  seas,  as  faithful  breast 

Hides  loves  that  have  but  seemed  to  die,- 

Whether  on  seas  dividing  tossed, 

Or  led  through  fertile  lands  the  while, 

Better  lose  all  things  than  have  lost 
The  memory  of  the  morning  Isle ! 

For  lo !  when  gloaming  shadows  glide, 
And  all  is  calm  in  earth  and  air, 

Above  the  heaving  of  the  tide 
The  lonely  Island  rises  fair ; 

Its  purple  peaks  shine,  outlined  grand 
And  clear,  as  noble  lives  nigh  done ; 

While  stretches  bright  from  land  to  land 
The  broad  sea-pathway  to  the  sun. 


FALLEN  IN  THE  NIGHT!          251 

He  wraps  it  in  his  glory's  blaze, 
He  stoops  to  kiss  its  forehead  cold ; 

And,  all  transfigured  by  his  rays, 
It  gleams  —  an  Isle  of  molten  gold. 

The  sun  may  set,  the  shades  descend, 

Earth  sleep  —  and  yet  while  sleeping  smile  ; 

But  it  will  live  unto  life's  end  — 
That  vision  of  the  Golden  Isle. 


FALLEN  IN  THE  NIGHT! 

dressed  itself  in  green  leaves  all  the 

summer  long, 
Was  full  of  chattering  starlings,  loud 

with  throstles'  song. 
Children  played  beneath  it,  lovers  sat  and  talked, 
Solitary  strollers  looked  up  as  they  walked. 
O,  so  fresh  its  branches !  and  its  old  trunk  gray 
Was  so  stately  rooted,  who  forbode  decay  ? 
Even  when  winds  had  blown  it  yellow  and  almost 

bare, 
Softly  dropped  its  chestnuts  through  the  misty 

air; 

Still  its  few  leaves  rustled  with  a  faint  delight, 
And  their  tender  colors  charmed  the  sense  of  sight, 


a52          FALLEN  IN  THE  NIGHT! 

Filled  the  soul  with  beauty,  and  the  heart  with 

peace, 
Like  sweet  sounds  departing  —  sweetest  when  they 

cease. 

Pelting,  undermining,  loosening,  came  the  rain ; 
Through  its  topmost  branches  roared  the  hurricane ; 
Oft  it  strained  and  shivered  till  the  night  wore 

past; 

But  in  dusky  daylight  there  the  tree  stood  fast, 
Though  its  birds  had  left  it,  and  its  leaves  were 

dead, 
And  its  blossoms  faded,  and  its  fruit  all  shed. 

Ay,  and  when  last  sunset  came  a  wanderer  by, 
Watched  it  as  aforetime  with  a  musing  eye, 
Still  it  wore  its  scant  robes  so  pathetic  gay, 
Caught  the  sun's  last  glimmer,  the  new  moon's 

first  ray ; 

And  majestic,  patient,  stood  amidst  its  peers 
Waiting  for  the  spring-times  of  uncounted  years. 

But  the  worm  was  busy,  and  the  days  were  run ; 
Of  its  hundred  sunsets  this  was  the  last  one : 
So  in  quiet  midnight,  with  no  eye  to  see, 
None  to  harm  in  falling,  fell  the  noble  tree  ! 

Says  the  early  laborer,  starting  at  the  sight 
With  a  sleepy  wonder,  "  Fallen  in  the  night !  " 


A  LANCASHIRE  DOXOLOGY.        253 

Says  the  schoolboy,  leaping  in  a  wild  delight 
Over  trunk  and  branches,  "  Fallen  in  the  night ! " 

O  thou  Tree,  thou  glory  of  His  hand  who  made 
Nothing  ever  vainly,  thou  hast  Him  obeyed ! 
Lived  thy  life,  and  perished  when  and  how  He 

willed ;  — 

Be  all  lamentation  and  all  murmurs  stilled. 
To  our  last  hour  live  we  —  fruitful,  brave,  upright, 
'T  will  be  a  good  ending,  "  Fallen  in  the  night ! " 


A  LANCASHIRE  DOXOLOGY. 

"  Some  cotton  has  lately  been  imported  into  Farringdon, 
where  the  mills  have  been  closed  for  a  considerable  time. 
The  people,  who  were  previously  in  the  deepest  distress,  went 
out  to  meet  the  cotton :  the  women  wept  over  the  bales  and 
kissed  them,  and  finally  sang  the  Doxology  over  them." 

Spectator  of  May  14, 1863. 

f|  RAISE  God  from  whom  all  blessings 

flow." 

Praise  Him  who  sendeth  joy  and  woe. 
The  Lord  who  takes,  —  the  Lord  who 

gives,— 
O  praise  Him,  all  that  dies,  and  lives. 


254        ^  LANCASHIRE  DOXOLOGY. 

He  opens  and  He  shuts  his  hand, 
But  why,  we  cannot  understand : 
Pours  and  dries  up  his  mercies'  flood, 
And  yet  is  still  All-perfect  Good. 

We  fathom  not  the  mighty  plan, 
The  mystery  of  God  and  man ; 
We  women,  when  afflictions  come, 
We  only  suffer  and  are  dumb. 

And  when,  the  tempest  passing  by, 
He  gleams  out,  sun-like,  through  our  sky, 
We  look  up,  and  through  black  clouds  riven, 
We  recognize  the  smile  of  Heaven. 

Ours  is  no  wisdom  of  the  wise, 
We  have  no  deep  philosophies  : 
Childlike  we  take  both  kiss  and  rod, 
For  he  who  loveth  knoweth  God. 


YEAR  AFTER   YEAR.  255 

YEAR  AFTER   YEAR: 
A  LOVE  SONG. 

f|EAR  after   year  the   cowslips   fill   the 

meadow, 
Year   after  year  the   skylarks   thrill 

the  air, 
Year  after  year,  in  sunshine  or  in  shadow, 

Rolls  the  world  round,  love,  and  finds  us  as  we 
were. 

Year  after  year,  as  sure  as  birds'  returning, 

Or  field-flowers'  blossoming  above  the  wintry 

mould, 

Year  after  year,  in  work,  or  mirth,  or  mourning, 
Love  we  with  love's  own  youth,  that  never  can 
grow  old. 

Sweetheart  and  ladye-love,  queen  of  boyish  pas- 
sion, 

Strong  hope  of  manhood,  content  of  age  begun ; 
Loved   in  a   hundred  ways,  each   in  a  different 

fashion, 

Yet  loved  supremely,  solely,  as  we  never  love 
but  one. 


256  "  UNTIL  HER  DEATH." 

Dearest  and  bonniest !    though  blanched    those 

curling  tresses, 
Though  loose  clings  the  wedding-ring  to  that 

thin  hand  of  thine,  — 

Brightest  of  all  eyes  the  eye  that  love  expresses  ! 
Sweetest  of  all  lips  the  lips  long  since  kissed 
mine ! 

So  let  the  world  go  round  with  all  its  sighs  and 

sinning, 
Its  mad  shout  o'er  fancied  bliss,  its  howl  o'er 

pleasures  past : 
That  which  it  calls  love's  end  to  us  was  love's 

beginning :  — 

I  clasp  my  arms  about  thy  neck  and  love  thee 
to  the  last. 


"UNTIL  HEK  DEATH." 

i. 

flNTIL    her    death!"    the    words    read 

strange  yet  real, 
Like  things  afar  off  suddenly  brought 

near : — 

"Will  it  be  slow  or  speedy,  full  of  fear, 
Or  calm  as  a  spent  day  of  peace  ideal  ? 


"  UNTIL  HER  DEATH."  257 

ii, 

Will  her  brown  locks  lie  white  on  coffin  pillow  ? 
Will  these   her    eyes,   that  sometime  were 

called  sweet, 

Close,  after  years  of  dried-up  tears,  or  meet 
Death's  dust  in  midst  of  weeping?     And  that 
billow,  — 

in. 

Her  restless  heart,  —  will  it  be  stopped,  still  heav- 
ing ? 

Or  softly  ebb  'neath  age's  placid  breath  ? 

Will  it  be  lonely,  this  mysterious  death, 
Fit  close  unto  her  solitary  living,  — 


A  turning  of  her  face  to  the  wall,  nought  spoken, 
Exchanging  this  world's  light  for  heaven's ; 

—  or  will 

She  part  in  pain,  from  warm  love  to  the  chill 
Unknown,   pursued   with    cries   of   hearts    half- 
broken  ? 

v. 

With  fond  lips  felt  through  the  blind  mists  of 

dying, 

And  close  arms  clung  to  in  the  struggle 
vain ;  — 
17 


258      THE  LOST  PIECE   OF  SILVER. 

Or,  these  all  past,  will  death  to  her  be  gain, 
Unto  her  life's  long  question  God's  replying? 


No  more.     Within  his  hand,  divine  as  tender, 
He  holds  the  mystic  measure  of  her  days ; 
And  be  they  few  or  many,  His  the  praise,  — 

In  life  or  death  her  Keeper  and  Defender. 

VII. 

Then,  come  He  soon  or  late,  she  will  not  fear  Him ; 
Be  her  end  lone  or  loveful,  she  '11  not  grieve ; 
For  He  whom  she  believed  in  —  doth  be- 
lieve — 

Will  call  her  from  the  dust,  and  she  will  hear 
Him. 


THE   LOST  PIECE   OF   SILVER. 

A  PRAYER. 

f]OLY  Lord  Jesus,  Thou  wilt  search  till 

Thou  find 
This  lost  piece  of  silver,  —  this  treasure 

enshrined 

In  casket  or  bosom,  once  of  such  store  ; 
Now  lying  under  the  dust  of  Thy  floor. 


OUTWARD  BOUND.  259 

Gentle  Lord  Jesus,  Thou  wilt  move  through  the 

room  — 

So  empty  —  so  desolate  !  and  light  up  its  gloom : 
The  lost  piece  of  silver  that  no  man  can  see, 
Merciful  Jesus !  is  beheld  clear  by  Thee. 

Defaced  and  degraded,  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Its  superscription  Thou  knowest  still  we  trust : 
And  Thou  wilt  uplift  it  and  make  it  re-shine, 
For  it  was  silver  —  pure  silver  of  Thine. 

Loving  Lord  Jesus,  Thou  wilt  come  through  the 

dark, 

When  men  are  all  sleeping  and  no  eye  can  mark. 
Though  "clean  forgotten,  like  a  dead  man  out 

of  mind," 
This  lost  piece  of  silver  Thou  wilt  search  for  — 

and  find. 


OUTWARD  BOUND. 

UT  upon  the  unknown  deep, 

Where  the  unheard  oceans  sound, 
Where  the  unseen  islands  sleep,  — 

Outward  bound. 
Following  towards  the  silent  west 
O'er  the  horizon's  curved  rim,  — 


260  OUTWARD  SOUND. 

Or  to  islands  of  the  blest, 

—  He  with  me  and  I  with  him  — 
Outward  bound. 

Nothing  but  a  speck  we  seem 

In  the  waste  of  waters  round, 
Floating,  floating  like  a  dream,  — 

Outward  bound. 
But  within  that  tiny  speck 

Two  brave  hearts  with  one  accord 
Past  all  tumult,  grief,  and  wreck, 

Look  up  calm,  —  and  praise  the  Lord,  • 

Outward  bound. 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED  | 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


.<•«*  r?     MS  71975'Sf  ; 

REC'D  LD 

JUN  17  1960 

»        JSftCffi,    Mlf  12* 

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